


A Shadow of the Past

by consulting_fangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Injury, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-07 05:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 45,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulting_fangirl/pseuds/consulting_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is hurt badly during yet another chase down a dark alley. He ends up unconscious and is taken straight to the nearest hospital, but John doesn't know the real damage until Sherlock wakes up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John ran. He ran as fast as he could after the tall figure in the long, flowing coat as they ran down the alley in the night. Why was it always an alley? Why was it always night? Could the criminals of London not escape the cliché?

The man they were chasing was a triple murderer. They’d been on his tail for three days until Sherlock had finally tracked him down, which had lead to the chase in the alley. Lestrade had come round to Baker Street in a panic. Apparently the guy was moving quickly and so far his team had been able to pick up nothing. Sherlock had immediately headed straight for John and Mary’s flat, picked up his friend – leaving John only a small amount of time to explain the situation to his wife - and they’d arrived at the scene within minutes. Sherlock had explained very little to John as the case progressed, only conveying some thoughts out loud whilst keeping the rest firmly locked away in his mind palace.

“John! We’ll lose him!” John sped up, running faster than he ever thought he could. One foot in front of the other. The light from his torch was dancing all over the walls as he struggled to keep it steady in an attempt to keep up with Sherlock. His throat was on fire, he needed air. But they needed to catch the killer more. John continued to race after Sherlock, who was always just a few paces in front. The murderer turned round a corner. John saw Sherlock’s coat whip around at the sudden change of direction before…

There was the deafening, sickening sound of an impact of something crashing into something else. John turned the corner. The murderer was running down, away from John, but this is not what caught John’s eye. Sherlock was crumpled in a heap on the ground, face down, not moving, not even making a sound. 

“Sherlock?” John kneeled next to him, panic rising in his chest. It was not uncommon for one or both of them to be injured in a chase, but this was different. “Sherlock!” The panic seeped into John’s voice. He examined Sherlock, checking for a pulse – a wave of relief crashed over him as he felt the faint flutter of a heartbeat - and then searched for the cause of the damage. Impact to the back of the head, forming a large and ugly looking lump with purple bruising beginning to blemish the pale skin, knocked him out like a light. There was a heavy looking pipe just next to Sherlock’s lifeless form, so that’s what he had heard. The murderer must have hit Sherlock with it as he turned the corner. John looked up, but the murderer was long gone. 

He fumbled in his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone and dialled Lestrade’s number. It rang for only a few seconds before the man on the other end picked up.

“John? Did you find him?”

“We found him, Greg. But that’s not important-”

“Not important? John, the man’s killed three people! Where’s Sherlock? Put him on the phone and maybe I can talk some sense into-”

“That’s what I’m phoning about. Greg, Sherlock’s hurt, badly. He’s unconscious and needs medical attention from someone who is not shaking quite so badly.” It was true. As the severity of the situation dawned on John (a murderer still walking free in London and the world’s only consulting detective lying in the middle of an alley), his body began to react. He’d started to shake, and nausea was rising in his stomach. He was no use to anyone like this. “Please Greg, send and ambulance and get your team on it.”

“Shit. Right, I’ll be right there. Don’t move, where are you?”

John gave their location to Lestrade, who promised to get there as soon as possible.

John tried to turn Sherlock over so he could see if there was any more damage. With a great effort, but making attempt to not hurt Sherlock anymore, John turned him over. He opened each eyelid and shone the light from his torch, forcing his hand to steady itself as he continued to shake. Sherlock’s pupils were slow to react. Too slow. He’d be concussed when he woke up. 

He heard the footsteps before he saw the people. There were four of them. One was Lestrade, who beckoned for the other three – paramedics by the look of their uniform - to move forward. Two of them were carrying a stretcher between them. They placed it on the ground next to Sherlock and lifted him onto it. Sherlock’s hand fell over the side and hung limply in the air as they lifted the stretcher up. It made John think of a ragdoll, so lifeless. Sherlock looked vulnerable, and this is what upset John more than anything. Sherlock was a constant source of strength that John relied on. And now, he wasn’t even waking up.

“He’s still breathing, his heart’s still beating, he’s still alive.” John reminded himself under his breath. The third paramedic, whom John had neglected to pay attention to, wrapped something around John before easing him up from the alley floor and propelling him forward. John’s eyes never left Sherlock. He could hear noise coming from the four people around him, but he did not even register what they were saying, his only concern was his best friend. 

They arrived at the mouth of the alley within minutes, Sherlock still unconscious in the care of two of the paramedics, John being guided by the third an Lestrade behind them. There were flashing blue lights everywhere, and John felt very disorientated as he struggled to register what was happening around him. More people were poking at him, shining lights into his eyes and talking words at him that John could not hear. There was a ringing in his ears. His chest felt tight as he felt the others surround him, invading any and every space that John considered his personal bubble. It was getting harder to breathe. There were too many people. It was too loud. Where was Sherlock? 

Where was Sherlock?

John turned his head and found him, being loaded into the back of an ambulance by yet more paramedics. 

“John?” Lestrade’s voice broke through the haze that had been clouding John’s senses. A firm hand took hold of his upper arm, and John noticed that he had moved forward towards the ambulance, towards Sherlock, without even realising. He turned to face Lestrade, whose face was lined with worry and concern. 

“Greg.” John breathed. “I need to- I- Please.” John’s voice broke on the last word as he quietly begged his unspoken request. 

Lestrade sighed and then nodded. He released his grip and let John climb into the back of the ambulance. The paramedics tried to stop him, but after John spent a few moments just looking at them with a confused expression, Lestrade stepped in and explained the situation. Finally, John was allowed access into the vehicle. He sat down across from Sherlock, who was now being seen to by two different paramedics. The doors closed and they began to drive away, swaying with the movements of the ambulance as it made its way through the streets of London.

It was only then, in the back of an ambulance, that John looked at what was wrapped around his shoulders. A bright orange blanket covered him, and as John looked back over to Sherlock, the tears began to silently spill over John’s cheeks.


	2. Chapter 2

When John Watson was a doctor, he liked hospitals. They were incredibly well equipped with some of the best technology for medical care. They were sterile, preventing the risk of mass spread of disease. They allowed him to work, to do what he did best, to fix people.

When John Watson was a patient, he tolerated hospitals. He saw the necessity of their existence, and appreciated the care given to him when he was admitted. Even if he was bored out of his mind, and it always had the strong smell of cleaning fluids and people which very often gave him a headache, he was grateful that he was there.

When John Watson’s best friend was lying unconscious in a hospital, he hated them. The lights were too bright, the machines were too loud, but more importantly, it had been three days, and Sherlock was still unconscious and the doctors who had been assigned to him had not done a thing about it. 

John knew in the logical, medical part of his brain that they were doing the right thing. There was no major damage that they could find, however they would be more sure when he woke up and they could perform a more thorough check. The only thing they could do was wait.

The illogical, impatient part of his brain, however, wanted to scream at them. Why was Sherlock not awake yet? They had to do something, anything.

He hadn’t left the hospital since they arrived on the night of the chase. John had been checked over and was cleared by the nurses on duty. He’s then followed Sherlock as the doctors performed various tests and scans, until they had set him up on one of the empty wards. He’d spent a few minutes trying to regain control of his emotions, but it was difficult when he was in the same room as Sherlock when he was in this state. He'd quickly gone outside for some fresh air and to ring Mary, because John knew she would have been worrying all evening about them. John explained everything to her, voice quivering and breaking as he spoke. She told him she’d be there in ten minutes.

Mary had sat with John on a bench outside as he cried. She had cradled him against her and whispered soothing words of comfort as he buried deeper, clinging on to what he had. He silently thanked God that at least one of them was okay. If a situation ever occurred that put both Sherlock and Mary’s life in danger, it would break him. For now, he breathed in the smell of her honey scented shampoo, and allowed her words to wrap around him like a protective barrier. 

When they’d returned to Sherlock’s bedside, she’d made a big fuss about plumping his pillow and making sure his blanket was tucked around him, and John watched as she smoothed back the ebony curls from Sherlock’s forehead and plant a soft kiss there. As she pulled away, she told him to wake up soon. It reminded John of the way his mother used to tuck him in bed at night, and filled John with waves of fresh, raw emotions.

Mary returned to their flat, but John insisted that he stay with Sherlock until he woke up. 

There were several visitors for Sherlock the next day. Lestrade was the first to make an appearance. He looked exhausted. There were dark shadows underneath his eyes and his shoulders were more sagged than usual. He was worn. He tried to lighten the mood by cracking a joke about the amount of paperwork he’d have to fill out, but John did not want to laugh. He did not want to do anything. It was only a short visit, and Lestrade left to continue with the case.

Next to visit was Molly Hooper and her fiancé, Tom. She took one look at Sherlock on the bed and burst into tears. John let Tom do the comforting, he did not want to comfort anyone. He wanted Sherlock to wake up. Molly spent her time there holding Sherlock’s hand and talking to him. John was unsure about whether Sherlock would be able to hear her, but he appreciated the fact that she was trying. She told Sherlock about some of the interesting bodies she’d seen at work and promised him that he could have his pick when he woke up.

“Please wake up, Sherlock.” It was barely louder than a whisper

She was shaking, and her voice was weak, cracking as the tears fell over her cheeks. She let go of his hand to wipe them away, and Tom moved forward to collect her together and leave. Probably for the best, John thought. 

Mary had come again. She bought John a fresh set of clothes and kept an eye on Sherlock as John went to get changed. She’d forced John to eat something, telling him that starving himself wasn’t going to do any good to anybody. John reminded Mary of how much he loved her. Anyone else would have treated him like a child, like he was something delicate that need to be protected. Mary wasn’t like that. She knew what John needed, and made sure that he got it. What John needed now was a rock, something stable to hold onto whilst his life was whirling around him in dizzying circles.

She stayed with John for the rest of the day. At about 4pm, John began to feel confined, so he popped out to get some air into his lungs, and Mary watched over Sherlock again. John returned and before he stepped into the ward, he saw Mary leaned on Sherlock’s bed. She’d pulled her chair right up close and her head was laid on her folded arms. Her mouth was moving, talking to him, and John opened the door slightly to hear what she was saying.

“You have to wake up Sherlock. I know you will. I bet your big, clever brain’s trying to break out right now, isn’t it?” She smiled at him fondly, before her face fell into an expression of – what John could only describe as - heartbrokenness. “Please Sherlock, for John.”

John opened the door and walked in, as if he’d never heard what Mary had said, as if he’d never felt the ache in his stomach that they caused. He sat in his chair, and Mary took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. John squeezed back, but he did not feel reassured. Sherlock was still not awake, and John would not feel better until he was.

On the second day, Mycroft had paid his younger brother a visit. Mary had gone to work, but John had phoned in and taken time off under exceptional circumstances. He left the room, to give Mycroft some privacy with Sherlock. John had never seen Mycroft look so worried before. It was almost as if he were human. But John did not acknowledge this. Instead, he let Mycroft spend however long he needed with Sherlock. After about an hour, Mycroft emerged. He still looked worried, but less so than when he had entered the room. For strange reasons unknown to John, seeing Mycroft look less worried actually calmed him. It was probably because if anyone were to find a fault with anything, it would be Mycroft. So, either there really was nothing to worry about, or Mycroft was keeping the truth from John. He settled with the former, not wishing to contemplate what Mycroft cold be keeping from him. John had resumed his place in his chair and continued to watch.

There were no visitors on the third day, apart from Mary, who came in before heading off to work. She’s ruffled Sherlock’s hair gently and kissed John before leaving. John did not do anything that day. He just existed. He did not talk to Sherlock as the others had done, the idea seemed ridiculous. Besides, what on earth would he say? Sherlock would know that John wanted him to wake up, he didn’t need to be told, and anything else John would want to say would be irrelevant.

He just sat there for hours, watching Sherlock. John was just about to drift off to sleep – for he had slept very little over the past days – when he heard the quiet moan and the rustle of movement coming from the direction of the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

No.

The word was screaming in John’s head, whirling around, removing every other thought it was possible to possess and replacing it with that one word.

No no no no no no no.

Mary’s hand were wrapped tightly around his as they sat in the consultant’s office. Her eyes were watering, but she somehow managed to stay strong. Whatever it is that she was doing, she was doing it better than John was. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the consultant, and only a few words were registered. He wanted to block them all out, to deny everything that was happening, because it couldn’t be happening. Not to him. Not to Sherlock.

All it took was a look from his best friend, just a look to know that something was incredibly wrong. John had coaxed Sherlock awake, and instead of being greeted with murmurs of his name or a hand reaching out, Sherlock’s brow had furrowed, eyes narrowing and he brushed John away. 

“Sherlock, you’re awake, thank God! We were all so worried.”

“We?”

“Yes, Greg, Mycroft, Molly and Tom, and Mary and me.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him with the same expression. A doctor had walked in, wearing the stereotypical lab-coat, carrying a clip board.

“Ah, Mr Holmes.” He pushed a button to the left of Sherlock’s bed, which seemed to summon more people as they shuffled into the room. “Awake at last I see.”

“Awake?”

The doctor had explained the situation to him briefly. “John hasn’t left you’re side the entire time Mr Holmes. Indeed, you have a loyal friend.”

“John?”

“Yes, I’m here Sherlock.” Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes still trying to focus. But when they did, Sherlock still looked weary and cautious of him. And that had been the moment where John had realised. “oh God, please no.” He began to shake, and the tears were spilling fast over his cheeks, leaving hot, salty trails down his face. He had clasped his hands together, as if in prayer and pressed his forehead against them with as much force as he could manage, trying desperately to cling onto his sanity. He had begun to rock backwards and forwards in his chair, crying out, “no, please, no,” over and over again as he did. He was removed by one of the nurses and placed in a separate room whilst the other doctors had attended to Sherlock. 

When he was in that room, he lost all sense of self control. He had shouted, thrown things (luckily the nurse had the good sense to not but him in a room with any heavy or expensive equipment) and finally, his had just cried. His knees gave way and John had found himself knelt down in the middle of the room as his sobs echoes around him. 

He didn’t know how long he was there, but after some time had passed, John felt arms around him, pulling him in. He smelled the honey shampoo before he saw Mary’s face, and allowed her to envelope him in her arms, as for the second time in three days, John completely let go of any self-restraint he had managed to hold onto.

Mary refused to leave John’s side, which is how they ended up in the consultant’s office. A few words floated around John’s mind, a mixture of his own and the consultant’s

Head trauma. Post-traumatic. Retrograde amnesia. Temporary? Possibly. Hopefully. Treatment. Therapy. Memory recall. John. John?

“John?” He turned to see Mary looking patiently at him. “John, did you hear any of that, sweetie?” John shook his head, he did not have the energy or motivation to open his mouth and create words.

“Mr Watson.”

“Doctor.” John spat out. Mary squeezed his hands again.

“Doctor Watson,” the consultant corrected himself, “we’ll need to keep Sherlock in for a few more days, possibly only the one. We need to run more tests and scans to make sure there is no permanent brain damage and give Sherlock a basic test of memory, just to see what exactly is happing. We are unsure of where his memory ends but-”

“It will be more than four years. I’ve known him for just over four years, and he has no recollection of who I am.” John did not remember crying again, but he felt Mary wipe away the tears with the cushion of her thumb, stoking along his cheekbones. Her own tears had spilled over, but John could not bring himself to wipe them away. He allowed himself to be entirely selfish for a few moments, before his mind turned back to the situation at hand.

“Will he ever be able to? Remember us that is,” John reclaimed Mary’s hand, looking back at the consultant. John was of course, a fully competent doctor, but he’d rather hear it from someone else than just rely on his own knowledge in this case.

“Very possibly. Sherlock displays the signs of suffering from post-traumatic, retrograde amnesia. Sherlock may lose knowledge of who people are – as you are already aware of.” He shot the couple a sympathetic look before continuing. “He may be more likely to remember general knowledge about things rather than the specifics and older memories will be easier for him to recall rather than more recent ones. He’ll remember his childhood, but the more recent years will be blurry, possibly even completely gone. This is usual for the average person suffering with-”

“Shut up.”

Both the consultant and Mary stared at John, who’s eyes were closed, jaw clenched, fists curled up tightly on his knees.

“Sherlock Holmes is not average.” His voice quivered, and he was struggling to keep a hold of his temper.

“I didn’t mean to suggest-”

“No. Listen to me.” His eyes flew open and he stared at the consultant, leaning towards him slightly. “Sherlock Holmes is the most brilliant and clever man I have ever met. His brain does not work like yours or mine. He has ways of storing things, filing them away and he never forgets them unless he deletes them. And his brain will never accidently delete anything unless Sherlock tells it to. All his memories are in there, trapped. We just need to help them get out and I will do that if it kills me because Sherlock Holmes is my best friend and he is the least average person to have ever existed.”

The consultant looked quite panicked, and John only returned to his chair when he felt Mary’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him down. Mary was in control, providing the stability John needed as his world came crashing down around him.

“What happens when Sherlock’s discharged?” Mary took control yet again, asking the right questions and not loosing her temper.

“He’ll need comfort, stability and regular stimulation. Does he have a permanent address?”

“Yes,” replied John. “Baker Street. Don’t worry about stimulation there, he’ll have plenty.”

“He’ll also need 24 hour supervision. Does anyone share this address with him?”

“Perhaps Mrs Hudson could,” Mary began, but John cut her off befor she could finish.

“Yes.” Mary looked at him, confused. John should have probably discussed this with her first, but now was not the time for discussion. “I do.” And in that moment, it was decided. John was returning to 221B Baker Street.

“Well then Doctor Watson, you’ll need to watch over him at all times. Once we determine what exactly is wrong with Mr Holmes, we’ll fill you in and provide you with everything necessary to ensure his recovery.” He got up from behind his desk, a signal for John and Mary to leave, he had other patients to attend to. Before they left, Mary extended her hand and thanked the consultant for his time. John too extended his hand. As the consultant shook it, he looked at John, keeping eye contact before saying, “I’m sorry, truly I am. It’s always awful when this happens, and you both obviously care about this man a great deal.” 

John did not want to hear words of sympathy. He wanted to see Sherlock, so he turned and walked out of the room without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

The argument had been inevitable. John was expecting it the moment they walked out of the consultant’s office. But of course, Mary had waited until they were back at home.

She’d shouted, she said some things that she regretted, mostly about John always prioritising Sherlock before his own wife, resulting in her completely breaking down into sobs. The tears didn’t seem to ever stop. But John understood. She felt like he was abandoning her, choosing Sherlock over her, always Sherlock. And part of him knew that she was right. Mary was always right. Not in the same way as Sherlock, but she was always right, right about John. She knew how their relationship worked, and she knew that John would not rest until Sherlock was better, even if that meant leaving her behind yet again.

He had tried his best to comfort her. He held her close, just as she had done, rubbing small circles into her back, not caring that she was leaving black marks from her tears on the shoulder of his jumper. He repeatedly reminded her that it was only temporary, just until Sherlock recovered – if he ever did. He told her that he loved her with every cell in his body, and that was not going to change no matter what was happening in John’s life, or however many miles separated them. He promised to tell her everyday just how much he loved her, and thanked her for putting his life back together after the incident involving Moriarty, St Bart’s rooftop and Sherlock.

Mary had eventually calmed down and together they packed a suitcase full of John’s clothing, ready for his departure to Baker Street the next day. John didn’t realize how tired he actually was until he flopped down onto their sofa. His whole body ached with exhaustion and his eyelids felt heavy and he was struggling to keep them open. He could not pinpoint the exact moment when he allowed himself to give in and let sleep take him, nor could he figure out how long he had been asleep for.

John woke up to the smell of something, toast. He woke up with one side of his face pressed against a cushion that someone had obviously moved under his head. He was laid across the sofa, still fully dressed, apart form his shoes which had been removed and were lying next to the sofa, and he was covered with a fluffy blanket. Typical of Mary Watson. Even after they had rowed and even though she was still obviously still making sure John was okay, making sure he had everything he needed. John had not spent the night on the sofa because Mary was angry at him. He had spent the night on the sofa because Mary knew how tired he was and that he needed the rest. She made him comfortable, but made no effort to move him as he rested peacefully in their front room.

As John realized this, he became overwhelmed by how much he loved this woman, and how much she obviously loved him. He moved off the sofa and was lead to the kitchen by the smell of toast. Mary was stood at the counter, spreading generous amounts of John’s favourite jam on the fresh toast. She was faced away from him and did not see him come in. Her hair was ruffled, and her cheeks were slightly flushed. She was dressed in her much loved pink dressing gown. To John, she had never looked more beautiful.

He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his forehead against her shoulder. She let out a little gasp of surprise, but soon relaxed once she realized what was happening. She laid down the toast and turned around, still held tightly by John’s strong arms. Her own arms looped gracefully around his neck and John just stared into her eyes. He truly had been blessed with the most perfect woman in the world. He did not deserve her one tiny bit.

Mary seemed to sense this, and she leaned in and kissed John deeply. As they broke apart, John pulled her in tightly, wanting to be close to her, to just be with her.

“I’m sorry.” He breathed into her ear.

“I know,” she whispered back, “I’m sorry too.”

“What for? You did nothing wrong, you behaved like any rational human being would. I’m the one who’s leaving temporarily, not you. I’m the one who’s going off the rails, not you. You’re the one who still takes care of me despite all of this.” He pulled back slightly to see her face.

“That’s because I love you, you daft sod!” She laughed lightly. John noticed how her smile seemed to light up her whole face. He had always love that about her.

“And I love you. I love you so much Mary.”

“Glad to know that you didn’t marry me for no reason. I know why you have to go John. Sherlock needs you more than I do, and I know you’ll help him. And when he’s better, you can come home and I can have you all to myself again. Well… mostly to myself.” She kissed the tip of his nose and shot him a cheeky wink before returning to her task of making breakfast. John let her. He could not put into words just how amazing this woman was.

They sat opposite each other at the dining table, sharing fond looks and reaching over to join hands as they ate their toast. There was a mutual understanding between them. John showered and dressed quickly, as there was a taxi picking him up at 11am to take him to Baker Street. He picked up his bag, which until then had been poised in the hallway, beckoning to John to get on with the task at hand.

John was going to go to 221B, and with the help of Mrs Hudson and Mycroft – who had volunteered his services – to prepare the flat for Sherlock’s return. Sherlock was still being kept in hospital. According to Mycroft, Sherlock had been too busy insulting all of the staff - including the specialist psychologist who had been bought in to check his mental condition – that none of the test had been carried out. Typical. Sherlock always was a stubborn git, and amnesia clearly hadn’t changed a thing.

Except it had, because John Watson was now only a stranger to the man he considered his best friend.

Then, he would stay with Sherlock until he had recovered enough to manage on his own. John had tried to convince himself that he was doing this for Sherlock’s benefit – Mrs Hudson would never have been able to take care of him fully. But a small, truthful voice in his head kept reminding him of why he was really doing it. Of course he wanted to help Sherlock, but anyone could have done it, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly. But John wanted to do it, because he thought that if it was him taking care of Sherlock, that maybe, he might be able to remember his faithful blogger. John knew he was clutching at straws, but he was a desperate man. It was eating at him, killing him slowly from the inside, and that’s why John was doing this.

There was the sound of a car pulling up, and John saw the shape of a London taxi out of the window. Sherlock would have approved, London taxi’s being his preferred method of transport. Mary held open the door for him. He wrapped his arms around her again and kissed her. She made him promise to at least text her when he got there, and waved him off as the taxi began to move away. He sighed and pulled out his phone. He typed out a message and sent it.

Miss you already – JW x

It made him sound like a love-sick teenager and he regretted it almost immediately. But to his surprise, seconds later, his text alert went off.

You just read my mind, Dr Watson. I love you – Mary xx

John smiled. And with that simple message, John felt like he had a little more strength as he headed back to his old flat to attempt what seemed like an impossible task.


	5. Chapter 5

Nothing much had changed since he’s moved out of 221B Baker Street. Everything was almost exactly the same as when he’d moved out, with the addition of a bit more mess, increased amount of equipment for more experiments, and a slightly stronger smell of chemicals and gunpowder. Sherlock had not moved anything of John’s, but the place had been noticeably tidied, or at least an effort had been made. Why couldn’t Sherlock have done this when John had still been living here? What seemed like wasted arguments finally had the affect John had intended, even if it was slightly later than expected.

John had texted Mary as soon as he’d jumped out of the taxi. He’d walked up the familiar steps to the black front door with the brass lettering. He had traced his fingers over the numbers, before finally taking the spare key that he’d kept when he moved, and letting himself in. Mrs Hudson, the dear, sweet, kindly old woman had been waiting for him to arrive. They had shared a quick, tear-filled hug – mainly from Mrs Hudson, John had done his crying and now he needed to at least appear strong for the people around him.

Mrs Hudson opened the curtains, which were shut when they arrived. John watched the dust dance in the ray of sunlight that shone through the window. Knowing Sherlock, those windows probably hadn’t been opened in at least a week. Mrs Hudson continued to pad around the room, clearing up empty mugs or used plates and depositing them in the sink. Sherlock’s environment needed to be comfortable for his return, and mess was certainly the opposite. Mrs Hudson busied herself in the kitchen, donning the washing up gloves and filling the sink with hot, soapy water to tackle the enormous pile of dishes that had accumalated there.

Mycroft had immediately moved into in Sherlock’s bedroom, making sure everything was to an adequate standard. John stood in the middle of the flat. He felt useless, alien, like he was invading an unknown territory. But that was ridiculous. 221B had always been home. Mycroft cleared his throat behind him, and John turned to look at the eldest Holmes brother – the only one with any memory of who he was. 

“John, remember that I will try as much as possible to fill Sherlock in about the past few years of his life, but it will not make it any less difficult for you.” Mycroft looked sympathetically at the army doctor. This was the plan. Mycroft would help at Baker Street, and then collect his brother from the hospital, explaining the situation as best he could to Sherlock, and hoping that he didn’t kick up too much fuss over an apparent stranger keeping an eye on him. Mycroft had promised to stress the fact that John was not a stranger, and had been Sherlock’s friend before the fall. After that, he would leave John and Sherlock in Bakere Street and watch how events unfurled, intervening only when necessary. “I would offer to take care of Sherlock myself but-”

“You’re too busy being the British government to help your only brother who can’t remember his old flat mate, which really isn’t a concern of yours anyway,” John snapped, finally reaching breaking point, “yeah, I gathered.” John did not mean to sound so resentful or harsh, but something about being back in Baker Street just pushed John over the edge. Maybe it was that he had to face up to the reality and enormity of the task ahead of him. He felt the pressure of a strong hand on his shoulder, and it took John a minute to register that the hand belonged to Mycroft. John was so unused to signs of affection from the Holmes brothers that he was suitably shocked and touched at the gesture. It was as if Mycroft was planting him on the ground in preparation. John would have to be Sherlock’s anchor as he readjusted to the world.

“John, I know this is difficult for you, but Sherlock needs you. He will remember, I am sure, soon enough. I am not often wrong, John. But it will take time, and your support is all you can give him. He needs you here.”

John reflected on his first encounters with Mycroft. Mycroft had not seemed overly enthusiastic about John’s presence in Sherlock’s life, so why the change?

“Why, Mycroft? You weren’t keen on me being here when I first moved in, so why am I suddenly needed so badly? Why not just let Sherlock get on with his life without me? It wouldn’t have made any difference.”

Mycroft stared at him with such an intensity that it almost made John feel uncomfortable. Almost – the man had lived with Sherlock for God’s sake.

“John, when I first met you, I said that you would be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever. As I said, I am not often wrong. You were undoubtedly the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock Holmes. You didn’t see him before he met you. He was a mess. You just limped into his life – nothing special – and picked it up and turned it around. I envied you John.”

“Me? You envied me?”

“Doctor Watson, Sherlock and I are similar in the respect that we both detest repetition. It is a waste of time and I am sure you heard me the first time.” He rolled his eyes at John. “Yes, I envied you. You changed Sherlock for the better, something I had been striving to achieve for years and yet you seemed to accomplish it within a week short weeks, possibly even days. You made him happy, you were the only one who ever could and probably ever will.”

John didn’t move, and was sure that even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t have been able. Mycroft’s word seemed to have frozen him where he stood, just staring. Mycroft let out a rather loud, irritated sigh. “Shock is not becoming of you Doctor Watson, and I’d seriously suggest closing your mouth before you choke on the amount of flies you will inevitably catch if you continue to do so.” And with that, Mycroft dropped his hand back to his side, giving John a chance to collect himself and reflect on what had just been said to him.

Mycroft would have known Sherlock better than anyone before John had been introduced into his life. He would have known what made the Consulting Detective happy, which made John shudder, because it had been something highly illegal, but also incredibly dangerous. 

In fact, one of the main reasons John was here was to make sure Sherlock didn’t relapse, because in his mind, he wasn’t, he was just picking up where he left off. Although Sherlock had mentioned none of this to the doctors examining him, they had determined that Sherlock couldn’t remember the past five years, and five years ago, Sherlock had been in a dark place in the confines of his brilliant mind. As a doctor, he knew all about addictions and the marks they leave behind on the lives of the addict, and the people around them, he was prepared for any circumstance. As a friend, it terrified John to even consider that Sherlock would fall so easily back into addiction’s unyielding grip.

“John, we are prepared for every possibility,” commented Mycroft, who seemed to be reading John’s thoughts. “The flat has been entirely searched by my own team, nothing has been found. We have also paid off all known dealers in the area to make sure that Sherlock does not get his hands on anything stronger than the painkillers prescribed to him by the hospital, which we will rely on you to issue to him in the recommended dosage.” John turned his head towards the floor, breathing in deeply. The amount of trust that everyone was placing in him was touching, yes – but also incredibly daunting.

“What if I can’t do anything Mycroft? What if I can’t help him?”

“John, you underestimate your abilities both as a doctor and as Sherlock’s friend. Believe in me when I say that you are the only one who could do anything for Sherlock now.” And with that, Mycroft left the flat to collect the rightful occupant of 221B.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay in updating! The response I have received for this story has been overwhelming, thank you so much! I just hope I can make this story live up to your expectations and that you aren't disappointed! Sorry in advance if you are! - consulting_fangirl x

The man walking through the doors was not Sherlock Holmes. The man walking through the door was not his best friend. The man walking through the door was nothing more than a shadow of what he used to be, a whisper of memories long forgotten. Just a hollow shell of the rich, enigmatic and human man John had come to know. Physically, he was still the same – alert and intense. He still held his head high, eyes narrowed. He walked the same way he always had, and the curls on his head bounced around just as they had before. John watched from his armchair as Sherlock gazed around the flat as he stood in the doorway, taking in all the new information into his mind palace, and storing it for later analysis. After only a few moments of hesitation, Sherlock strode into the flat and sat down in his armchair. He moved his hands across the smooth, black leather, as if this was a source of comfort to him, as a small child would rub silk against their skin in a time of distress.

Mycroft entered just as Sherlock sat. The three men engaged in an awkward silence. It pained John to feel this way, when such easy conversation had always flowed without effort in the four wall of 221B. Now there was an unpleasant tension where there should have been warmth and laughter.

“Sherlock, this is Doctor Watson.” Mycroft gestured to John. There was no need. Sherlock’s gaze had rested on John as soon as he’d settled himself into his chair. His eyes of an indescribable colour had locked on John and had not moved throughout the period of silence. John had seen this look before, the one that made you feel like Sherlock was cutting you open, dissecting and examining you right to your very core. John did not feel uncomfortable under Sherlock’s intense stare, with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled under his chin, just like he used to. At least that hadn’t changed. There was still something left of the world’s only consulting detective. This thought alone bought the ghost of a smile to John’s face. It was a pleasant change from the solemn, mournful expression that John had wearing over the past few days.

“I am perfectly aware of who he is Mycroft, you informed me about him on our way here. Army Doctor who fought in Afghanistan, but was invalided home after he was shot in the left shoulder, causing a psychosomatic limp and he had to walk with a cane. Has an alcoholic sister. He has a blog on which he writes the goings on of our ‘adventures’ as you so aptly called them. Did I forget anything, brother dear?” Sherlock’s deep baritone voice seemed to reverberate around the entire flat. Oh, how John had missed it. He’d missed the way Sherlock emphasized certain words, how his voice seemed to just ooze sarcasm and sass, especially when the words were directed at his brother, and especially when he said the word ‘forget’. But most of all, John had missed the way the words seemed to drip from Sherlock’s mouth slowly, as if they were made of syrup or honey. Another smile flickered across John’s face.

“Something amusing Doctor Watson?” Sherlock’s tone was accusing, challenging, but John just kept smiling.

“Just remembering something.” John looked away, unable to hold Sherlock’s gaze whilst he was smiling like this.

“How pleasant it must be to be able to remember.” The words were spat, with such venom that John stopped smiling and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. The stare that Sherlock was giving him now was not analytical. It was cold, harsh, and full of contempt and loathing. “How wonderful it must be for you to be able to remember exactly what happened to you last week, or last year, or during the past five years.” Sherlock stood in one fluid movement and began to pace up and down the flat. His eyes were searing with a kind of fury that John had only ever seen once, sat by a fireplace in an inn on Dartmoor, after Sherlock’s first encounter with the hound. “How extraordinary it must feel to not have had five years pass without you remembering. How special you must feel to be able to remember who I am when I don’t even know you. How terribly amusing.”

John could do nothing but stare at Sherlock, who now looked so agitated that John feared for his safety. Danger. A quick glance at Mycroft told John that the same thought had crossed his mind

“Sherlock, sit down.” This was not a request or suggestion from Mycroft. It was a demand. Sherlock noted the tone of voice and immediately sat back into his seat. It seemed that despite the loss of 5 years from Sherlock’s mind, he still considered Mycroft to be a voice of reason, and was reasonably happy to comply. Well, as happy as Sherlock could be obeying commands from his older brother. He resumed his staring. 

“Why are you here Doctor Watson?” Sherlock’s voice was calmer now, questioning.

“What do you mean?” John wanted to know exactly what Sherlock wanted to hear. Perhaps his sparked curiosity about John could force his mind to remember all those clever deductions the consulting detective ever made about the army doctor.

“You’re a married man, happily married. You wear a wedding ring that is kept in good condition,” Sherlock began. John’s pulse quickened and he leant forward, eager to listen to Sherlock. “That the-”

“State of my marriage, right there,” John finished, grinning as he remembered their first case together. Sherlock looked at him, confused but also surprised. John looked down at his left hand and twisted the ring off his finger for closer inspection. Sherlock held out his hand, and John immediately handed it to him, and Sherlock proceeded to examine the ring, twisting and turning it in his long, slender fingers. The trust was there, and Sherlock could see that, he just didn’t understand why John trusted him so wholly. For now, John was content to give him an answer to the questioning looks. “On our first case together, you deduced that the deceased woman was a serial adulterer from the state of her wedding ring. All her other jewelry was clean, but her wedding ring was dirty, except on the inside. The only cleaning it got was when she worked it off her finger, and that’s a direct quote from you by the way.” John shot Sherlock a grin, pleased with himself for remembering, and hoping that the glimmer of a memory was somewhere within the foggy, blurry confines of Sherlock’s mind palace.

There was a stunned silence. Sherlock’s full attention was now turned towards John, still holding the ring at his eye level. “I said that?”

“Yes, you deduced it. It was one of the first deductions I ever saw you make.”

“And you… uh… remembered all that?” Sherlock blinked several times as he tried to get the words out of his mouth. 

“Yes, of course I do. It was amazing, it was quite extraordinary.” Sherlock’s eyes closed at the words, as if they were soothing to him. 

“Amazing?” he breathed, and John could see his eyes moving under their lids, and knew that Sherlock was in his mind palace, trying desperately to seek out the memory of this encounter. Clearly he could find none, because moments later, his eyes snapped open and he deposited the ring back in John’s hands. “Yes, well. That’s not what people usually say.” And with that, he swept out of his chair and towards his bedroom. The door slammed behind him, separating Sherlock from the rest of the world. John and Mycroft made no attempt to follow him. Sherlock need the space and time to himself. His mind palace would be in a state of disarray, and despite how Sherlock treated things on the outside, it distressed him greatly when the inside of his head was untidy and unorganised. Sherlock relied on the organisation of his thoughts far more than anyone knew – anyone other than John and Mycroft. So they left him alone.

John’s eyes fell upon the armchair opposite him. It was strange to think that the man who was just sat here could be the same man that he had shared so many good memories with in this room, like the stag night, the many clients they’d listened to, the countless takeaways. The list was endless. 

John was so engrossed in his memories of this room, of these very chairs, that he did not notice that Mycroft had moved into his field of vision until he had cleared his throat. He looked up at the man that was supposedly the British government, who was looking back at him with something that closely resembled pity. But that was ludicrous. Mycroft Holmes did not do pity. 

“Well, I best be off. You seem to have made a promising start, but you know what they say, the road to recovery is a long and difficult one.” John tried not to think about the double meaning, focusing entirely on the recovery of Sherlock’s memory, and not Sherlock’s possible relapse. John didn’t move as Mycroft walked out of the flat. He remained in his armchair, thinking. He could hear Sherlock moving around his room, possibly looking for something. John did not know, nor did he make any attempt to find out.

It was all very well trying to prepare himself for what was ahead. But the truth of the matter was, that interaction with Sherlock was completely and utterly heartbreaking for John, who was so used to Sherlock being able to recall every little fact about him that having the tables turned felt oddly disorientating. He remembered the look in Sherlock’s eye after he struggled to find a memory of John. Sherlock had looked devastated – for there was no other word that John could have used. And this is what broke John. Sitting in silence and reflecting, and letting his heart get broken.


	7. Chapter 7

There is a word to describe how John and Sherlock lived in those first few days in the flat. Existing. They did not talk, or eat together, or sit in the same room. In fact, John did not see Sherlock for four days after he returned home, choosing to barricade himself in his bedroom rather than let John try and help him recover. John let Sherlock take his time. He knew that being around new and unknown people for extended periods of time could put Sherlock in a bad mood, but on top of all that, Sherlock was trying to cope with something that John hoped he would never have to, or Mary, or Mycroft, - in fact, anyone he knew. But it was Sherlock, the mad, brilliant, infuriating, captivating man who was struggling against the fog inside his own brain. John would have assumed that Sherlock was scared, but Sherlock Holmes did not do scared.

It was a Tuesday when Sherlock purposefully sat down in his armchair in front of John. He didn't know why it was important that it was a Tuesday, Sherlock would have written off the detail as dull and useless. John didn't acknowledge his presence, choosing instead to keep reading his book. He only looked up when the man opposite cleared his throat, signaling to John that his attention was required elsewhere. John closed his book and set it on the small side table that was more often beside his chair than Sherlock's. John looked up towards his friend. A small gasp escaped his lips as he took in the whole of Sherlock's figure. He was thinner, alarmingly so. Damn, why had John not forced him to eat something? The circles under his eyes were the darkest John had ever seen on a person, making his eyes look sunken. This, combined with the extreme weight loss and Sherlock's already tall, slim figure gave the impression of a skeleton, and this terrified John.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" He reached out and grabbed the taller man's shoulders, holding him in place as he scanned the rest of him, making sure that there was nothing else wrong. Sherlock's eyes never left John's face, and only after their eyes locked for a few seconds, did John let go of Sherlock. He realised that this might have made Sherlock uncomfortable. "God, I'm sorry! I'll just…" he trailed off. Sherlock continued to watch John as he clumsily settled himself back into his armchair.

"Does it worry you?"

"I'm a doctor, of course it worries me. It's not healthy."

"A lot of things I do aren't healthy Doctor Watson, so why should this be of any concern?"

"Because it is."

"That's not a valid answer."

"I don't care whether it's valid or not. It's not healthy and therefore it's my concern." John tried to maintain the eye contact, but after what just happened, he found the top left-hand corner of the flat just above Sherlock's head a lot more interesting. The silence between them resumed, although John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, not ever moving from him.

"Do you do that often?"

"Do what?" asked John, still purposefully not looking at Sherlock. Had that mark always been on the ceiling?

"Invade space that one would consider their 'personal bubble'." Sherlock made quotation marks in the air as John looked back at him.

"You're one to talk." John let out a rush of air that could have been a laugh, but wasn't quite. His lips quirked into a smile, but instantly fell back into the sad expression that had been the default since he returned to Baker Street. "You never held any regard for personal space during the while time I knew you." Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his face furrowed into that familiar frown that triggered a thousand different memories in John's mind. It pained John to the point where he believed to to be physical pain, that Sherlock could not share this with him. Sherlock's head turned slightly to the side, so he was now eying John from the corner of his eyes as he had done with so many previous clients

"Knew me?" His tone was cutting, icy. "Am I dead? Do you no longer remember me? I was under the impression that I was the one suffering from post-traumatic amnesia. So, tell me Doctor Watson, how can it be that you 'knew me'?"

John let the seconds drag out, knowing that the answer would hurt.

"Because you're not the same Sherlock Holmes that I know. You're still a brilliant, arrogant, snobbish know-it-all, but you're not the man who was my best friend." His voice cracked, and he looked towards the floor, desperately trying to keep the tears from falling as the brutal honesty of his words settled in. It had been one thing to think them, but admitting them out loud set it in stone. This was not the same Sherlock Holmes, and John felt that no matter how hard he tried, he was never going to fully regain his best friend. However, this did not mean that he was not going to try.

"I was your best… friend?" John looked back up, determined to keep eye contact. The look on Sherlock's face immediately transported John back to the moment when he'd asked Sherlock to be his best man. That had been a shock. Sherlock could literally not wrap his brilliant brain around the fact that he was capable of being anyone's best friend. It felt like too much, but John persisted.

"Yeah, you were. You were the most extraordinary man I've ever met, and also the most human. You called yourself a high-functioning sociopath, but unlike the rest of the world, I could see past that bullshit. You had a heart and you cared for people. You jumped off a building to protect the people you cared for, and then spent two years destroying the network set up by the man who threatened us, and then when you came back…"

John wanted to keep talking, but he found that he could not. His voice was trapped in his throat. Sherlock's eyes were closed again. John knew this was so he could think better. So he could absorb all of the new information into his brain and let it filter. He would then file it away wherever he saw fit in his mind palace. Once again, his fingers were steepled under his chin, in the position John had named: Sherlock's Default. Happy, sad, confused, angry, whatever emotion, Sherlock's fingers would always steeple themselves as they tucked under his chin.

"I've never had friends. Why on earth would I have friends?" He spat the word out as if it tasted sour in his mouth.

"You didn't," Sherlock's head snapped up and his eyes opened, but John didn't meet them, choosing instead to look at his own hands that were sat uselessly in his lap. "You only had the one."

Before Sherlock could make any more cutting remarks, John got out of his chair and up the stairs to his old bedroom. He closed the door behind him, holding onto the handle for a short while before turning around to face the room. He did not remember falling back, or down, but next thing he knew he was slumped against the door, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees as he cried into his lap. It was as if the universe was punishing him for a terrible crime. Sherlock couldn't remember who he was, or any of the time they had spent together, and yet they were sat there, practically quoting their past conversations word for word. His crying turned into sobbing, the tears falling thick and fast and never seeming to stop.

God, he felt like a teenager, he felt pathetic, how much could a man cry in one lifetime? John Watson felt like he was crying for the rest of mankind. He fished his phone out of his pockets and dialed the number of the only person he felt like talking to, because they would not pity him, they would let him cry. They would make everything better, because they always did.

The phone rang for a few moments, before the person on the other end of the line picked up. A silvery voice spoke.

"John?"

John gasped as he tried to control his sobs, enough to speak into the phone, hoping that one simple word would show how much he was breaking, how much he needed them with him, to fix him.

"Mary…"


	8. Chapter 8

John focused on the warmth radiating from the hand he was clutching in the cold of the afternoon. He and Mary were walking around one of London’s many parks, hand in hand, not talking, just enjoying each other’s company. John honestly did not know what he would do without Mary’s constant support. She was the one constant in John’s life at the moment, always providing the strength that John needed. She could have come with him to Baker Street, being a nurse she was more than qualified. But John knew that Mary was giving them space. John needed to be the one to help Sherlock, and he wanted to do it alone, and she respected that.

John had not needed to explain to Mary what was happening. The moment she’d heard his voice on the phone, she’d ordered him to stay put until she got there. John had held onto the phone with both hands, as if it were his lifeline. Only a short while later he had heard footsteps running up the stairs and a quiet knock, just above John’s right shoulder as he remained leaned against the door. He’d scrambled clumsily to his feet and opened the door with such ferocity that he was surprised that it didn’t fly off of it’s hinges. His beautiful, strong and perfect wife was waiting on the other side. There was no ‘hello’, no ‘how are you?’ There were no words at all, there didn’t need to be. Mary was wearing her favourite red coat, her hair pinned back at the sides with jeweled clips that John had bought her as 3 month anniversary present on a whim. He wasn’t sure Mary would like them, but she did, immensely so. John appreciated that she was wearing them, he didn’t know why, but they’d put a small smile on his face when he saw them nestled in Mary’s blonde hair.

She’d reached up and wiped the tears off of John’s face, pausing as she rubbed her thumb along his cheekbone, her other hand cupped around the back of his neck, drawing them closer together. John had caught her hand and held it to his face. He smiled weakly down at her, and wrapped his free arm around her waist. He leaned forward until their foreheads were resting against each other. John had closed his eyes and breathed deeply for the first time in days, and allowed himself to forget why they were there in the first place. All that had mattered at that moment, was that John had his wife in his arms. They shared this intimacy for a few moments longer, before Mary laced her fingers through John’s and detached themselves from each other. She had lead him downstairs, and John caught a glimpse of Mrs Hudson fussing around Sherlock, who was in his thinking position, sprawled across the sofa, completely unaware of the hurt he’d caused John. He had opened one eye lazily as John and Mary entered the room. He’d looked the couple up and down once, and then closed his eye again, returning any thoughts he’d abandoned to watch John and Mary. Mrs Hudson had sent an apologetic look at the two of them. Mary had gently guided John out of the flat, and as they walked down the stairs into the hall, she’d turned and said her first words to John since she arrived at Baker Street.

“I called in a favour with Mrs Hudson. She’s going to watch him for a while so we can take a walk, you need space and fresh air.”

John had felt a rush of affection for his wife, who once again had been thinking of him, and only him. They’d walked through the streets of London until they ended up in a park.

As they walked, John took time to take in the scenery around him. He’d never appreciated just how beautiful this small oasis of green was in a jungle full of grey building complexes and concrete monuments. He breathed in the air. It smelled of freshly cut grass, rain and something that could only be described as London. It was refreshing. With every breath John took, he felt like he was cleansing his lungs from whatever poison was infecting 221B Baker Street. They continued walking in silence, until they came across a vacated park bench. The settled themselves on it, letting go of each other’s hands as they did. Mary waited for a few moments before turning to her husband.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Her now empty hand reached up to stroke through John’s hair and he leaned into the touch. They sat there, shoulder to shoulder, Mary’s hands still stroking John’s grey-blonde hair.

“This is hard. Much harder than I thought it was going to be.” Mary did not offer advice, for there was none to give. Neither did she give John pity, for which he was grateful. He could not stand to have anyone’s pity.

“I know, sweetheart, I know.”

John stared into the distance, focused on nothing in particular.

“He doesn’t even call me John anymore.” John choked out the words, ashamed to admit how much this hurt him. Because it did. It had always been Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock, the consulting detective and his blogger. But now, it was Sherlock and Doctor Watson, the consulting detective and the stranger that lived with him – at least in Sherlock’s mind. “And he’s loosing weight, Mary. Too much, it’s scary. He’s obviously not sleeping and he hasn’t appeared to make any progress with his memory.” John sounded like he was breaking, but there were no more tears. Mary rested her hand on his shoulder and pressed her forehead against his temple, eyes closed.

“John, the doctors said it would take time.”

“But how long, Mary? Because I don’t think I can take anymore!” John too closed his eyes, it allowed him to concentrate, and he could understand why Sherlock did it so much.

“John, listen to me. Sherlock needs you. It’s probably a lot harder for him, you know how he works, this will be killing him. All you have to do is offer him help and support. Be his friend, because that what you are and always will be, and one day, he’s going to remember that, and I know that he’ll appreciate that you didn’t abandon him to the care of doctors or even worse-“ Mary paused, “his brother.” John could not help but laugh out loud. He marveled at the amazing woman sat next to him. She always knew exactly what to say, exactly what to do to make John happier, to make him laugh or smile. How had he gotten so lucky?

He turned to face her, smile still plastered on his face. “Remind me, why did you marry me?” She chuckled.

“Because I love you,” she said simply, smiling at him and sending waves of warmth throughout John’s body. “Come on, we should get back. There’s a genius back in Baker Street who’s in need of some decent company.” She jumped up from the bench.

“Are you implying that I’m not decent company?

“Yes.” She shot John a cheeky wink as she held out both of her hands. John took them and allowed her to pull him up. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. She returned the hug, relaxing into John’s embrace. John kissed Mary’s head, before pulling away.

“And what makes you think I am not decent company Mrs Watson?” He held out his hand and Mary immediately took it. She shoved him playfully with her shoulder and John kissed her temple. They continued to tease each other for the duration of their walk back to Baker Street, by which time, John was in a considerably better mood.

Mary was good for him. Mary made him happy, deliriously so. Mary made him stronger. But Mary was no miracle worker. Sherlock was still broken, and John wanted desperately to fix him.


	9. Chapter 9

John returned to the flat with Mary to find Sherlock sat at his desk in the living room. A laptop - probably John’s – was open in front of him, and he was completely engrossed in whatever he was reading. John did not bother to password protect his laptop anymore, not since moving in with Sherlock, who could always guess them in under a minute. Both he and Mary removed their coats and hung them up on the hooks just behind the door. Sherlock did not turn to look at them, but chose instead to carry on reading whatever it was that was in front of him. 

John turned to the kitchen, intent on getting caffeine into his system as soon as possible. “Tea, Sherlock?”

“Mmm.” John took that as a yes, and John took three mugs out of the cupboard, put the kettle on and proceeded to wait for it to boil.

Mary, however, moved over and sat down on the sofa, right in Sherlock’s eye line if he were to look up from his laptop. And he did, the moment she sat down and tucked her feet up on the sofa with her. John watched Sherlock regard her for a few moments, and then he began to speak.

“Why haven’t you been here Mrs Watson?” The deep baritone purr resonated throughout the flat.

“Excuse me, Sherlock?” Her tone was polite and inquisitive. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise, and yet there was no cutting remark that John had learned to expect. Clearly, Mary knew how to handle Sherlock, even in his current condition. John felt pride swelling inside him as he regarded his wife. He smiled to himself and went back to the kettle, which had just finished boiling, the steam rising in swirling, grey columns around the kitchen.

“You’re a nurse, in fact you work at the same surgery as you’re husband, Doctor Watson-”

“He has a name Sherlock, and it’s John.” John’s breath hitched as he listened to Mary scold Sherlock on his behalf.

“You and John work at the same surgery.”

“Yes we do.”

“So, why haven’t you been here? You’re just as qualified to take care of me as any of the imbeciles at the hospital that put on a coat and call themselves a doctor.” Mary laughed. John was very fond of her laugh, and he made a special effort to make her laugh just to hear it.

“Because,” Mary paused, and John held his breath, still not facing the tow of them, waiting to hear her reply. “You’re John’s best friend Sherlock. John wants to see you get better, and he wants to be the one to do it, the only one, because that’s what best friends do – they take care of each other.” John turned around to look at the both of them. Mary caught his eye briefly, before turning back to Sherlock. There was a long pause, and silence dominated the room as Sherlock turned theses answer over in his mind. 

“Would I have done the same for him?” John watched Sherlock, who slowly turned to look him straight in the eyes. It sent a jolt of pain through John, and he had to turn away from his intense stare.

“I think you would. He’s your best friend too.”

“Was.” Sherlock corrected. John could feel the tears burning in his eyes at such a simple word. He continued to attempt to make the tea, although his hands were shaking so much that half the contents of the mugs ended up getting splashed of the kitchen side.

“No,” Mary’s voice was soft. John turned his head to see what was happening. Mary was no longer on the sofa. Instead, she was no stood in front of Sherlock, one hand on his cheek, her thumb smoothing over his cheekbone. “He still is, Sherlock. And I think he always will be, no matter what happens. You just need to trust him. Your mind is trying to fight back, let John help.” She patted his cheek, and moved away.

Sherlock touched his cheek where Mary’s hand had just been. But made no other movement, or sound.

John simply marveled at her and Mary walked across the room and into the kitchen. She smiled up at him, and picked up one of the half-cups of tea. She was smiling as she drank it, and the flat once again was consumed by silence, although this time, it was more comfortable. Mary looked at her watch and - noticing the time - drained her cup. She moved into the living room and put her red coat back on again. John reached out, and caught her hand.

“Stay?”

“I can’t, sweetheart. I have to be at the surgery tomorrow, and someone has to cover until our best doctor returns.” She winked at him, and John couldn’t help but smile as he folded his arms around her. After a few moments, Mary pulled back to look up at her husband. “If anything happens, call me, okay?”

“Sure. Thank you for today, I needed it.”

“I know you did. I love you.”

“I love you too.” She kissed him goodbye, the sweetest kiss that John had ever shared with his wife, and she left, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the flat once more. 

John ran his hand through his hair, before turning back to his friend, who had returned his attentions to the laptop screen. His eyes were darting back and forth, reading the lines of text at a rate that John had never seen. John collected the other two mugs and deposited one in front f Sherlock, who didn’t even flinch. Curiosity got the better of John, and he leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder, resting one hand on the back of Sherlock’s chair, and one on the desk, to find out what was so interesting that it required Sherlock’s fullest attention.

Oh…

‘The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson.’

Oh…

It was open on their first case together. ‘A Study In Pink’, John had called it.

“I could see that Sherlock was going to take one of the pills,” Sherlock read aloud. He skipped several sentences. “Which is when someone shot the taxi driver.” A few more lines were skipped. “That someone could have the power of life and death over someone else - but I'm glad whoever it was did it, because they undoubtedly saved Sherlock's life. And, frankly, after everything that man had done to those innocent people who got into his car, a quick death like that was better than he deserved.”

Sherlock turned to look at John, this eyes scanning his face, deducing. John swallowed, is throat suddenly parched. Hi gulped down some of his tea in an effort to make talking, swallowing and breathing easier.

“It was you wasn’t it? You shot the cabbie.”

“Yes.” John replied truthfully. There was nothing else he could say.

Sherlock turned back to the screen. “I’ve been reading through your blog, John.” John noticed the use of his first name, and made a mental note to thank Mary the next time he saw her – or better yet, buy her something as a thank-you present, preferably with a large price tag, she deserved it. “I’ve been trying to find some of my lost memories. I found your blog on your laptop and decided to read it, incase it catalyzed the process of regaining my memory.”

“And, has it worked?” John tried to keep his voice steady, but was failing miserably.

“No, not exactly.”

“Not exactly? How-”

“You John.” John stared at his flat mate. He was totally confused. What Sherlock was saying didn’t make any sense.

“Me?”

“John, if you really were – are,” he corrected himself, “my friend, then you’ll know that I cannot stand repetition.” Yes, John was fully aware of that. The irony of that was, that Sherlock repeated this reminder at almost every opportunity.

“Sorry.” John waited for Sherlock to continue.

“You, you’re everywhere. In my mind palace, you’re in every room. I see you’re face everywhere, and yet I still can’t place you. It’s infuriating.” Sherlock slammed John’s laptop shut, and stormed out of the living room in the direction of his bedroom. This was confirmed when John hear the heavy slam of a door just beyond the kitchen. John hadn’t moved a muscle, hands still planted on the chair and desk, which was lucky, because he didn’t think his legs would have been able to support him at this point.

He focused on breathing. In, and out. In and out. 

This could be it, the beginning of Sherlock’s memory returning. But he mustn’t get his hopes up yet. This was a start – a good start – the best. But baby steps. 

Baby steps.


	10. Chapter 10

High-pitched notes, moving fluidly through the flat woke John in the early hours of a Wednesday morning. It was the all too familiar sound of a violin, and there was only one resident in 221B with the skill to play such a delicate instrument. 

Turning in his bed, the sound of his hair against the pillow momentarily blocking out the beautiful music, and leaning towards the clock on his bedside cabinet, John saw that it was in fact 3:08am. John flopped back onto his pillow, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply as he tried to bottle his frustration. This clearly wasn’t happening, so he kicked his legs out of the bed, and jerkily swung his body around so he ended up in a sitting position on the edge of his bed. It was pitch black, apart from the tiny sliver of light that was slipping through the gap that the slightly open door left. 

John had slept with the door open ever since he arrived back at Baker Street, just in case something happened in the middle of the night and John needed to get to Sherlock quickly, although as of yet, this hadn’t happened.

John took a few moments, still perched on the edge of his own bed, the sound of Sherlock playing the violin still travelling up the stairs. The air seemed to stir around him at the sound, as if the flat was waking up around him at the sound of the familiar strings, stretching it’s walls as it recognised the return of it’s detective. John ran his hands through his short, grey-blonde hair – an action that he seemed to be repeating a lot recently. He let out a sigh of resignation and pushed himself off the bed and towards the door.

Fair enough, his friend was suffering, but that did not make it okay for him to wake him up at bloody 3am with his violin playing. He thought that he should probably be delighted that Sherlock was showing signs of normal behavior, but all John could feel towards the situation was irritation. Was it too much for him to get a decent amount of sleep? He made his way down the stairs, his annoyance growing with every step he took towards the music. He reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the living room, about to give Sherlock a piece of his mind.

But he didn’t.

John stopped in his tracks by the sofa as the piece of music that Sherlock was playing finally made it’s way through the cloud of irritation in John’s mind, and John recognised it.

It was a waltz.

It was his waltz.

It was the waltz that Sherlock had composed for his first dance with Mary.

It was painfully beautiful, just as John remembered it. He closed his eyes and saw Mary, in her beautiful ivory gown, and her smile, such a beautiful smile. He saw the guests, all stood around them as they took their tentative first steps of the waltz. He could see Sherlock, on the stage in his suit, eyes closed, concentrating and letting the music take over him as he played. He could himself together with Mary together, twirling on the dance floor, as Sherlock played his composition for them, such a perfect moment.

John opened his eyes again, and realised too late that they were full of tears. He let the notes wash over him, each one feeling like a knife to the stomach, and yet they gave him hope. Was that possible? How could something give you hope, and yet at the same time cause you so much pain.

The lights were slightly dimmed, as was the custom after 1am in Baker Street – a habit established by Sherlock before John had even moved into the flat. Sherlock was stood with his back to the room by the fireplace, so John was unaware if he knew that John was there. He finished the piece on a long, haunting note, which left a hollow feeling in John’s chest. John tried to clear his throat, which had become tight as he wiped away the tears that had now spilled over his cheeks.

“This piece,” Sherlock didn’t turn around as he address John, nor did he lower his violin, “I don’t know it, and yet I hear it, every time I see you and your wife together.” He turned around to look at John, who had given up with his attempts to hide his emotions and slowly lowered the violoin until it was at his side, bow in the other hand. “It fills my head, my entire mind palace until it’s the only thing I can concentrate on. Why?” 

John remained silent, unable to find the courage to speak.

“Why?” Sherlock was shaking, John could see the bow in his quivering.

“Because-” John began, his voice breaking. “Because that’s- That’s the piece you- You wrote that for us, for our wedding.” John had to avert his gaze from Sherlock.

“Your wedding? Yes, I was… There was a man… a mayfly…”

John’s head snapped back to his friend. He walked quickly over to him, placing one hand on each shoulder, locking his eye with those piercing blu-green eyes. Sherlock flinched at the touch, but he didn’t pull away, allowing John to keep a firm grip on him.

“Say that again. Say that to me again, slowly.”

Sherlock’s eyes closed and his face crewed up in concentration. H took in several deep breaths before he spoke. Clearly this was taking a lot of effort on Sherlock’s part, but John didn’t let go, he kept his eyes focused on Sherlock’s face.

“A mayfly man, he lived for a day, four – no – five girls, attempted murder.” Sherlock dropped the bow on the floor and lifter hi hand to his head. His jaw tightened and John heard him suck in a breath through his teeth. John’s hands dropped to his sides, and he took a step away from the taller man, he didn’t want to crowd him. 

“Go on.” John encouraged, his pulse had quickened in anticipation, he could hear the beating of his own heart in his ears, which was probably a bad sign but he chose to ignore it. 

Sherlock’s hand was pressed painfully against his forehead. John moved forward and removed the violin form his grasp before he dropped that too. As soon as his hand was empty, Sherlock moved it to his head, ramming the base of his hands into his eye sockets. His breathing became quicker, and John feared that he was about to begin to hyperventilate. but before John could reach out to sit him down, Sherlock let out a furious groan, that was so full of rage that John took another step back. His eyes snapped back open.

“I can’t. I can’t remember anything else.” He grabbed the closest item to him – one of John’s mugs that had been left on the mantelpiece above the fireplace – and threw it across the room. It missed John by inches, smashing into a hundred pieces against the wall to John’s right, but John didn’t even flinch, he was too focused on what Sherlock had just told him. 

His memories were there. They were there, still tucked up in his mind palace, struggling to get out. The waltz had clearly triggered something that had allowed these small pieces of information to infiltrate through the fog, and bloom into Sherlock’s mind like the most beautiful flower in existence. Where Sherlock felt rage at being unable to remember anything else, John felt euphoria that something was coming back to him. Granted, none of it had lead to the uncovering of John’s identity in Sherlock’s mind, but it was something. A very good something.

Returning to the present, John noticed that Sherlock was now sat in his chair, head dropped in his hands, still shaking. John moved to sit opposite him in his own cushioned armchair. If John was capable of processing any train of thought, he would probably have been amused at the role-reversal that had occurred between himself and Sherlock, as the detective was overwhelmed with emotion and John seemed incapable of processing any emotions.

“Why was I there John?” John blinked a few times before being able to focus of Sherlock’s face. 

“Why- What?”

“Why was I there? Your wedding? I don’t ever go to anything like that, so why was I there? Was I tricked, drugged, or just there to solve a murder?” In that moment, Sherlock had never looked so vulnerable. 

“You were there,” John managed to choke out, the emotion he was feeling threatening to overwhelm him and close of his throat completely, “because you are my best friend and I asked you to be my best man.”

John’s words were greeted by a stunned silence as the detective let John’s word infiltrate his mind and settle there.

“I was your best man?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

John looked at his hands, once again unable to look into the eyes of his best friend. Why did he always press John like this? John wanted to walk away and drop the subject. But he’d agreed to help Sherlock recover, and if that meant answering every question thrown at him, then John planned to do absolutely that.

“Because you are my best friend, and I didn’t want anyone else to stand there with me as I got married, because if it had been anyone else, the role of ‘best man’ would have been completely meaningless. You were the only one I wanted for the job.” John’s eyes never left his hands, not even after he finished talking. 

The silence between them was like none that had ever been before. The tension could have been cut with a knife, and it was tangible in the air around the flat. John was vaguely aware of movement in front of him, but it was another few minutes before he looked up and noticed the absence of his friend. Turning to see that Sherlock’s coat and scarf were also missing told John that he had exited the flat. 

Knowing that he shouldn’t let Sherlock be running around London in this state, especially after days cooped up in the flat, John ran upstairs and quickly changed, before grabbing his own coat and running out of the door, closing it behind him and into the cold, London air. He turned his head each way down the street, before deciding to try going left first. He set off at a brisk pace, keeping his eyes peeled for a mop of ebony curls on top of a blue scarf and thick, black trench-coat.

John could tell that it was going to be a long night.


	11. Chapter 11

_Bloody hell._

It was the only thought rushing through John’s panicked brain as he combed the streets of London. It had already been 3 hours and there had still been no sign of Sherlock. He’d promised himself, for the sake of Sherlock’s dignity as well as his own, to not get Mycroft involved, but now it was getting ridiculous. It was no longer dark as dawn had begun to break at about 5am, just a sliver of light along the horizon. But now, London’s skies were streaked with reds, oranges and pinks, the blue of the daytime beginning to weave it’s way through the other colours to gain it’s dominance in the sky.

3 hours seemed like an eternity when running around London at 6am.

3 hours was a long time for Sherlock Holmes to get himself into trouble. John didn’t like to think about what kinds of trouble, just that trouble was incredibly likely, if not definite.

John reached inside his coat pocket and dialed the number for Mycroft. He swore under his breath as he did so. It pained him to resort to this.

“Ah, Doctor Watson. What do I owe the pleasure of your conversation at this hour?”

“Mycroft, Sherlock’s gone. He ran off at about 3 this morning and I’ve been looking for him ever since. I can’t find him Mycroft he could be anywhere with anyone doing anything and all because I didn’t think to follow him straight away and he could be in danger and…” His words were all melting together because he was talking so fast. He knew he needed to calm down, but since when was anything to do with Sherlock ‘calm’?

“John, calm down. Where did you last see him?”

John began to tell Mycroft exactly what happened, answering every question he was asked in extreme detail. After the interrogation, Mycroft instructed John to return to Baker Street and promised him that Sherlock would be found as soon as possible. John hung up the phone, and felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. He trusted Mycroft, more than he;d ever admit out loud, and despite all that Sherlock said about him, John knew that the two brothers loved each other really, deep down. Very deep down, far below the many, many layers of protective barriers that the Holmes’ had put around themselves, creating their cold, calculated exteriors that John was so used to seeing.

He caught a cab back to Baker Street, surprisingly light traffic for London. He made his way up the stairs, listening carefully for any sounds of life. He desperately hoped that Sherlock had just gone out briefly, and had returned to the flat many hours before. But as John opened the door and was greeted by silence, he realized that this was a foolish hope. He deposited his coat on the hook behind the door, sat down in his armchair and waited.

There was no noise in the flat. They used to have a clock, but Sherlock found the ticking distracting and highly irritating. It hadn’t taken long for a bullet to be fired straight through it, and that was the end of the clock. Since then, John and Sherlock had always relied on their phones to keep them updated on the time. John’s phone was laid on the small side table, which was now at the side of John’s armchair. The table had a habit of moving from one side of the room to the other, depending on whoever needed it the most. It was most often on John’s side of the room, because he often rested his empty mugs there after a cup of tea, or a book he’d had to abandon mid-sentence when a case came up that required the duo’s immediate attention. Looking at where it sat now, John realised that Sherlock hadn’t moved it since he’d last lived in Baker Street. His brows furrowed in confusion as he continued to focus his attention on the table, rather than what on Earth Sherlock could be doing

John watched the dust rise and fall in the light of the sun, now shining brilliantly over London and through the curtains of 221B. John mind was hurtled back to when he’d first visited the flat after 2 years of mourning the loss of Sherlock. There had been dust there too, but quite a bit more than there was now. Sherlock never did like it when Mrs Hudson dusted. John chuckled in spite of himself. Sherlock really could be like a petulant child sometimes. He remembered when Mrs Hudson had tried to clean the flat up for the first time after John had moved in. Sherlock had thrown quite a tantrum, and although Sherlock will deny it, John was certain that the younger man had pouted after she took away his skull as punishment for his temper. John immediately felt guilty about remembering when Sherlock could not, and so quickly turned his attention back to the dancing specks of dust floating in the sunlight.

They swirled around the flat in movements that surely must have been choreographed. The way the particles moved around each other, so intricate and delicate, reminded John of how he and Sherlock used to be. They were so in sync, always. John always knew how he needed to be around Sherlock - when his inputs and opinions were appreciated and when they were not, when he needed to ground Sherlock with a hand on his shoulder before his thoughts became too much, or even when Sherlock needed space to think and John left him alone. In return, Sherlock had understood when John needed him to shut up, or when he didn’t, he knew exactly what needed saying, he’d known when to keep John close on a case, and had never purposefully walked him into the path of danger. On the few occasions that this had happened, Sherlock had always claimed that it was completely accidental. Most of the time, John believed him, but there was something about Sherlock that John knew attracted him to high-danger situations – the thrill of the chase, as he had once put it.

Then, like a gust of wind through the dancing dust in the light, their equilibrium had been thrown out of balance. John now needed to pay even more attention to try and balance their lives out again. One blow to the back of the head, that was all it took, and Sherlock had gone down like a ragdoll, unknowingly dragging their lives down with him. One blow to the back of the head.

John didn’t know how many hours had passed since he returned to Baker Street, he hadn’t even registered that he’d spent the entirety of that time focused on a table and dust. Only when his phone rang did he make an attempt to move. His hands fumbled with the buttons in his attempt to answer the call as quickly as possible. He didn’t check the caller ID as he did so.

“Mycroft?”

“Is this Doctor Watson?” John frowned at the unfamiliar, female voice, and he could not help a sense of disappointment settle over him as he realized this was not Mycroft. He realized that the question warranted answering, and he finally connected the parts in his brain that allowed him to do so.

“Sorry, yes this is Doctor Watson.” Odd. Nobody ever addressed him as Doctor Watson apart from Mycroft, and John had established that this call was not from Mycroft.

“Doctor Watson, my name is Jennie Lawson, and I’m a nurse at Charing Cross Hospital-”

“Is this about Sherlock?” John cut off Nurse Lawson, desperate to hear news about his missing friend.

“No, I’m sorry the name isn’t familiar.” Another wave of disappointment flooded over John. “I’m calling because we have your wife, Mary Watson here with us. She collapsed this morning at work and was bought here as soon as possible. We’ve been running tests and should get the results of them soon. We’ll explain more thoroughly when you get here, I’m afraid she’s still unconscious, but we thought it would be best to contact you and you can be here when she wakes up.”

John could feel the colour drain from his face. It was a good thing he was already sitting down because he didn’t think his legs would have been able to support him. He felt like the air had been rushed from his lungs and that his skin was simultaneously covered in fire and ice. He couldn’t force air to move into his body. He was frozen, paralysed. First Sherlock, and now Mary - his beautiful, strong, perfect Mary.

“Doctor Watson?” John managed to force himself to breathe, and pushed the words past his lips, as if on autopilot. Everything seemed to be shutting down.

“Yes. I’ll be right there.” He hung up. His phone dropped to the floor. He held his head in his hands to stop it from spinning, the whole world was on a slant. He forced himself to gasp a few lungful’s of air before attempting to stand. His legs were clearly stronger than he’d given them credit for, and he felt them move automatically towards the door, stooping first so he could retrieve his fallen phone. He put his coast back on and headed outside into the world again. Although this time, there was no thrill of the chase, he couldn’t feel the blood pumping in his veins. John was numb, and it was very much just him, alone, against the rest of the world which seemed hell-bent on making John’s life as difficult, and as full of pain as possible.


	12. Chapter 12

When John Watson was a doctor, he liked hospitals.

When John Watson was a patient, he tolerated hospitals.

When John Watson’s best friend was lying unconscious in a hospital, he hated them.

When John Watson’s wife was lying in a hospital bed hooked up to too many machines which required too many needles for his liking, John could quite happily burn every hospital in existence to the ground.

How could so much go wrong so quickly? And what had John ever done to deserve any of this? If Sherlock’s situation had been pulling at the seams, what was going on now was like someone taking the sharpest pair of scissors and tearing through the fabric of John’s life, until nothing was left except tiny, unsalvageable ribbons. Impossible to sew back together.

Mary’s results had come back a few days after she’d been admitted, and the news was not good.

She was going to die.

Stage 4, malignant brain tumour. It was a secondary tumour, meaning the cancer had already spread far enough to affect her spine and nervous system. Inoperable, impossible to cure, but her life could be prolonged for a while.

John wanted to punch something, something breakable. He wanted to tear his hair out. He wanted to scream. He wanted to create a scene right in the middle of the hospital. He wanted to throw the chairs. He wanted to burn the piece of paper that said Mary – his Mary – was going to die.

At the same time, John wanted to hold Mary close. He wanted to tell her that everything was going to be alright ,and he wanted so desperately to believe it himself.

But he and Mary were both sensible people. They knew that it wasn’t okay.

Jesus, how had he not seen the signs? He was supposed to be a bloody doctor for God’s sake.

Apparently she’s been showing the signs for months. She’s experienced the severe headaches, which she’d just passed off as migraines due to stress bought on by work. The drowsiness, the nausea, the vomiting. Mary had even confessed that she’d been finding it harder and harder to concentrate on anything for lengthy periods of time, and that she’d had a few stumbles on her walks to and from work.

Shit.

It was all so clear now. They’d just been so caught up in what was going on elsewhere in their lives that they’d failed to recognise the symptoms for what they were.

John was sat on yet another extremely uncomfortable hospital chair, next to yet another figure on yet another hospital bed. He held one of Mary’s hands between both of his own, being careful not to jostle any of the needles.

Mary was refusing to look at him, and this pained John more than anything. They’d already talked about it. Nothing needed repeating. She didn’t want treatment. _‘What’s the point in prolonging the inevitable?_ ’ she’d said.

 _‘So I don’t have to lose you, not yet’_ he had thought. Mary seemed to have been able to read his thoughts, because she’d just smiled weakly and brushed her thumb over his cheeks. Such a gentle action, and yet so full of love, affection, and all the words they had been unable to say to each other.

John kissed her hand, and finally Mary turned to face him. She’d looked so healthy the other day, not she looked drained. Maybe it was just John’s mind trying to find something physically wrong with her before he could accept the truth of the situation. Honestly, John just thought the diagnosis had drained the life from them both. The spark that once used to dance behind Mary’s eyes had disappeared. No smile graced her face, and her whole aura just seemed to flatten.

They held each other’s gaze. They didn’t need to say anything to know what the other was thinking.

_I’m scared, John._

_I know._

_Don’t leave me._

_I won’t._

_I need you._

_I’m here._

_I love you._

_I love you too_.

It took several hours of silence before Mary drifted off to sleep. John was never asked to leave – he suspect’s Mycroft’s involvement.

Shit! He’d completely forgotten about Sherlock.

Satisfied that Mary wouldn’t be waking up any time soon, John excused himself to chick his phone. There was only one thing. He had a new voicemail. John dialed and held the phone to his ear.

“Doctor Watson, my deepest condolences. I am truly sorry to learn about Mary. I just wanted to notify you that I have found my brother, and he’s currently staying with me for a while. There is no reason to worry about him, he is more or less safe. You need to be with Mary. I have given instructions to the staff at the hospital not to remove you, so feel free to stay as long as you need to. Once again, my deepest condolences. Of all the people in the world, you two deserve it the least.” End of message.

Mycroft had sounded so sincere, it made John’s chest tighten. No, they did not deserve this. And yet here they were. John did not dwell on the ambiguity of Sherlock’s safety. His priority now was Mary.

If he had not been spending so much time trying to help Sherlock when he obviously did not want to be helped, he might have picked up on this sooner.

He moved back into his chair by Mary’s bed, and recaptured her hand between his own. He’d been so focused on Sherlock’s memory that he’d neglected to realise that his wife was suffering form something far more serious. Sherlock could live through amnesia. Mary could not live through this. And John could not live without Mary. And John could not live with the fact that he’d failed her. After having vowed to protect her in front of an entire church full of their closest friend’s and family, he had failed. He would never forgive himself for this, and he wouldn’t blame Mary if she didn’t either.

He pressed his lips against her fingers, as if this could make her better. He prayed for a miracle, for the doctors to come in and say they’d made a misdiagnosis and that Mary was fine, that he’d wake up and this whole ordeal.

But it couldn’t. John was going to lose the most important person in his life.

And he was not okay with that.


	13. Chapter 13

By the time Sherlock returned to Baker Street, John was already packing. He was leaving Baker Street to go and take care of Mary. She was refusing to stay in the hospital. She said the bed could be given to someone in more need than her. She wanted to spend her last few months at home. John would have rather died a thousand times over than see any harm come to Mary. But the universe did not care what John Watson would rather have.

3 months was what they were told. 3 months left together, to be a married couple. They would never be parents, or grandparents. There would be no school-runs, or trips to the beach. No school plays or concerts. No afternoons in the sun as the children played in the park. No family holidays, no bedtime stories. They would never grow old together. John would never brush the greying hairs from Mary’s face as they enjoyed retirement. Their whole life together was being snatched away from them. 3 months.

He was so full of blind fury that the clothes were stuffed so forcefully, the seams of the bag were beginning to break. John didn't care. He needed to get home, and every minute he spent in Baker Street was a minute away from Mary.

He was so busy concentrating on pushing even more clothes into the already full bag, that John didn't hear the tell-tale creak of the 5th stair, which signalled someone's ascent to his room. Neither did he hear the door swing open, or the familiar footsteps enter his room.

"What are you doing?"

"Packing." John refused to turn and look at Sherlock. He wanted to leave Baker Street as soon as possible, and he didn't care if it seemed rude to do so.

"Why?"

"You're the bloody genius, you figure it out." John finished stuffing his clothes, and closed his bag. He stood there for a few moments, trying to breathe deeply and get control of his anger and frustration.

John's heart was breaking. His world was shattering. His life was falling apart. Every single cliché was happening. Yet more clichés for yet more disaster.

He turned to face Sherlock, hoisting his bag up to his shoulder as he did so.

“You’re leaving.”

“ _Excellent_ deduction.” John’s voice could not have sounded more cutting and sarcastic even if he tried. It was possible, that he had just reached passed the level of sarcasm that Sherlock often used. “Bloody _brilliant_.”

He made to move past Sherlock, but found that the taller man was blocking the doorway. Sherlock was eyeing John carefully, taking in every tiny detail about him, but clearly his brain was still not at full capacity because he did not realise that John was reaching his limits, and Sherlock was testing them.

“Move out of the way, Sherlock.”

“Why? You’ll leave, and you’re supposed to be helping me.” The tone of Sherlock’s voice was accusing, as if he were trying to guilt John into staying. “I thought you’re supposed to be my friend.”

Something inside John snapped.

“Tell me this then, what the _fuck_ is the point in trying to help you if it’s obvious you don’t want my help?” How dare Sherlock imply that he was abandoning him. How _dare_ he. John knew he was shouting. He knew that Mrs Hudson, and possibly even the entire street could hear him, but he did not care in the slightest. He needed to have his say. He’d been biting his tounge ever since he moved back to 221B, and if he didn’t have his say now, he would burst with frustration, anger and hurt. “Believe it or not, Sherlock Holmes is not my priority. I can’t base my whole life around you when my wife-” John’s voice caught in his throat at the mention of Mary. Wave of grief rolled through him, which was ridiculous because Mary was still alive, for now at least.

“Oh, this is about Mary’s tumour.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he obviously connected two points in his brain.

“ _Two_ in a row. Wow, someone’s _extremely_ clever tonight.” Sherlock’s expression turned stony. Even when he knew who John was, he did not like being mocked by him. “Tell me, Sherlock, how on _Earth_ did you figure that out? What is the coffee stains on my sleeves from the type of coffee you can only get in the hospital? Can you see the lack of sleep I’ve been getting recently, and the creases on my shirt that show I have been sleeping in the chair beside a hospital bed that my wife occupies?” John’s eyes flashed, and Sherlock took the smallest step backwards. He knew that John was not one to be messed with today.

“No. Mycroft told me when I was staying with him.” Sherlock’s voice was calm, collected. But John saw a panicked shadow flash across his face. “Huh, some genius you are,” John snarled. “Now, _move_.”

“But what about taking care of me John? You made a promise.”

“I don’t _fucking_ care, Sherlock!”

“You showed how much you cared about me when you abandoned your _mundane_ married lifestyle to come and take care of me in some vain attempt at helping me regain my memory-”

“I did not abandon her! How _dare_ you even imply that I abandoned my marriage!”

“John, what is the point in denying it? I’m obviously the most important thing in your life, or at least more so than Mary, otherwise you wouldn’t-”

Sherlock’s words were cut short by John’s fist, which had connected with his jaw. There was a satisfying sound of impact as fist met face. Sherlock’s hands flew to his face, and he doubled over, trying to shield the rest of himself from John. John returned his fists to his side and stood there, just watching as Sherlock tended to his injured face. John’s whole body was trembling with the surge of adrenaline that had just rushed through him. He swallowed a few times before he spoke, and when he finally did, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

“There is nothing more important to me than Mary. Did you hear me? Absolutely _nothing_.” His voice sounded disconnected, as if it didn’t belong to John at all. Sherlock had slowly returned to his full height, but the air of superiority had gone, which – if possible – made him look small, scared. John swallowed a few more times as he tried to gain control of his wavering voice before he continued. “Especially,” his voice was stronger now, and he was looking Sherlock straight in the eye as he addressed him, “an unfeeling, heartless machine. You’re not my best friend. You’re not even a shadow of him. My best friend was taken from me by a single blow to the back of the head.” John turned his head towards the floor so Sherlock wouldn’t see the gradual build up of tears in his eyes. Now was not the time for crying. He had done enough of that in the past few weeks to last him a lifetime. “And now, my wife is being taken away from me too. And taking care of her is a lot more important to me right now than you. You are a lost cause, Sherlock.”

And without waiting to hear Sherlock’s reply, John stepped around him and exited out of his room. He slammed the door behind him, shutting Sherlock in John’s room, but made no move towards the stairs that would lead him out of 221B. The look on Sherlock’s face – for John had caught a glimpse of it before he left the room – had looked hurt, betrayed. John had never seen him look like that before, like someone had stuck a knife straight through his heart and twisted it for good measure. He had trusted John. The guilt began to claw at his insides. John regretted his words to Sherlock, and he wanted desperately to take them back, but his own pride forced him towards the stairs, and he made his way out of the flat. As he said, there were more important things to do.

Each step felt like a step towards a death sentence.


	14. Chapter 14

It was three weeks before John saw Sherlock again. It wasn’t for the normal, predictable reasons of John leaving something at the flat or just accidentally bumping into each other on a day out. No. This meeting was quite out of the ordinary.

People had always remarked on what a heartless man Sherlock was, John himself had said so before he stormed out of Baker Street. He’d never shown that he’d cared for anyone other than himself, and occasionally John. He was always amazed that John could regard so many people in such a high favour when it seemed that Sherlock would not, or could not.

They were all wrong. Sherlock had a rather large heart, but when you grow up in the Holmes family, sentiment is frowned upon, caring is not an advantage, and love is simply a chemical defect found in the losing side. Sherlock had always been on the losing side, and he had always been capable of love. He was cautious. He’d never expose his heart unless he trusted the recipient completely. Growing up in the Holmes family meant that he’d learned to trust very few people, and hence he never showed any interest in those around him.

So, it was completely out of character when Sherlock turned up at John and Mary’s flat 3 weeks after John had left.

John and Mary had been watching a film, curled up together on the sofa, just enjoying each other’s company. Mary had picked out a soppy romantic-comedy, the kind that made John cringe from the sheer awfulness but Mary seemed to enjoy. For John, nothing could beat a classic Bond film, but it was not about what John wanted. If Mary wanted to watch a ridiculous rom-com full of fluffiness and flimsy plot-lines, John wasn’t going to object. There had been a knock at the door. John got up from the sofa to answer it. He had been answering the door, the phone, Mary’s phone, their emails, everything since they got back from the hospital. Sherlock had been standing there in all his glory, scarf, coat, collar, even the gloves. Both men froze. 

They’d stood there, neither moving. They must have been there, in silence for a while, because John heard movement from behind him. He tore his gaze away from Sherlock’s to see Mary making her way down the hallway. 

3 weeks had been hell on her. She looked so tired and gaunt. She hadn’t been eating too wee, and whatever she did manage to eat was small, hardly anything. Her cheekbones we quickly becoming more prominent than Sherlock’s.

She looked questioningly at John, silently asking if anything was wrong. Clearly, John’s face was shocked or completely blank, because she moved around her husband to greet whoever was at the door. As soon as her eyes landed on that tall mass that was the world’s only consulting detective, something in her face lit up. 

“Sherlock.” Her smile was genuine, and in fact, John realized that it was the first real smile he’d seen in the past few weeks. She reached her arms towards Sherlock, who took the hint and leaned down to meet her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and Sherlock tentatively moved his around her waist. As they pulled apart from each other, John noticed that Mary was still smiling.

“My brother gave me your address.”

“Of course.” As she turned back to look at John, he felt himself mirroring that smile. Mary gestured towards the living room with a wave of her hand. Sherlock moved forwards, into the flat, and he followed Mary and John down the hallway. Mary turned her head to look at him.

“So, stranger, where have you been hiding?”

As they entered the living room, John and Mary both resumed their positions on the sofa, John sitting stiffly in an upright position, Mary cuddled up next to him, legs tucked up beside her and her head resting on John’s shoulders. Sherlock occupied the chair opposite them. A large space was left between them, too large for John’s liking. He would have liked nothing better than to get up and push Sherlock’s chair as close to the sofa as it could get. That’s how is had always been, and how it was supposed to be.

John hadn’t told Mary about the last time he saw Sherlock. In all honesty, he was ashamed of himself. He knew he had a temper, and that it could get quite nasty sometimes, but what he said to Sherlock was just cruel. He didn’t want Mary to think badly of him – not when their time was so limited. It made sitting in the same room as him increasingly awkward.

“My apologies for not visiting sooner Mrs Watson, it was fully my intention to visit as soon as I heard the awful news, and I’m deeply sorry. However, I wasn’t sure of whether or not I’d be welcome.” He was polite as ever. Git. How was John supposed to stay mad at him now? John could feel Sherlock’s gaze on him, and when he looked up at Sherlock, John caught a flash of blue-green. But John blinked, and Sherlock had turned his attentions to Mary.

“Sherlock, why on earth would you think that. And I’ve told you, please, call me Mary.” She smiled fondly at him. But upon seeing the faces of John and Sherlock, her face dropped as she turned from one to the other.

“What happened?” She waited for a response.

“Uh,” John tried clearing his throat, which had become oddly tight. “We might have had an argument.”

“It’s hardly an argument if it’s one-sided, John,” scoffed Sherlock.

“Okay.” John took a deep breath, trying not to let Sherlock get to him again. “I may have lost my temper a little the last time I was at the flat.”

“John,” Mary began, “when you say you lost your temper, what exactly do you mean?” She was pinching the bridge of her nose, eyes closed, clearly trying to keep calm herself. 

“I might have shouted a bit-”

“A lot,” interrupted Sherlock.

“Okay, a lot.”

“He also punched me in the face.”

“John!” Mary’s eyes flew open and she glared at John, who recoiled as if he’d been burned. There was no worse feeling than letting Mary down, especially now. “How could you do that?”

“I just- I couldn’t-” John began, but couldn’t quite form whole sentences.

“Mrs Wat- Mary, if you will allow me to speak to you in private, I can explain everything. I do not wish to intrude on your home life for long, I know that John wants to spend every minute he can with you. But if I could just borrow you for only a few minutes, I would be extremely grateful.” Mary looked at Sherlock, and an understanding seemed to flow through them. John watched Sherlock carefully. What on Earth could he possibly want Mary for? He turned to look at Mary, waiting for her reply.

“Of course, Sherlock. John, could you give us a few minutes? Pop the kettle on, maybe? I’m dying for a cup of tea!” She laughed dryly as she realised the wording or her request. John kissed her forehead, and Mary grasped his hand as he got up off of the sofa and moved into the kitchen.

He filled the kettle with water and set it to boil, then removed three mugs from the cupboard and placed them on the counter before him. Sherlock had his own mug here, for whenever he felt like he wanted to visit, which had been often. It had an intricate pattern in black and white, similar to the wallpaper at 221B – it was like having a part of his old life here in his new one, with Mary. Mary’s mug was red – her favourite colour – with white polka dots, and John’s was covered in blue and white stripes. They even had a pot of Sherlock’s favourite tea-bags next to the regular ones that John and Mary used. Sherlock was just an irremovable part of their lives. These past few weeks without him had been so strange. There had been no texts, no calls, nothing. Which is why John was very suspicious of Sherlock appearing on their doorstep out of the blue, and requesting a private conversation with Mary.

If Mary wanted to talk to Sherlock, John wasn’t going to stop her. Nothing could stop Mary getting what she wanted. Nothing. John had learned this when they were planning the wedding. So many petty arguments between the three of them about the flowers, the seating arrangements, the guest list. Mary always won, even if she was arguing with Sherlock. She was a force to be reckoned with, even now, despite their situation. John chuckled at the fond memories. 

Maybe one day, he would go back to Sherlock and try to help him again. It seemed unfair that he had to miss out on these things. John had his doubts that he’d be let back into Sherlock’s life after what he said. He was partially responsible for the rift that had been forced between him and his best friend – okay, almost entirely responsible. 

His priorities were conflicted between the tow people in the other room. He loved both of them very dearly, in different ways. They’d both unknowingly saved his life. It was unfortunate that in one case, he couldn’t return the favour.

As he was thinking, the kettle began to whistle. He filled the three mugs with hot water and set about making the tea.

When he took the tea into the living room, Sherlock had migrate from the chair to the sofa, sitting with his legs crossed, facing Mary, who also had her legs crossed. They looked like young teenage girls on a sleepover, and John had to laugh. They both looked up at him, and smiled. John was more surprised to see Sherlock smiling at him. It was if all had been forgiven between them, which was ridiculous because John hadn’t even apologised yet.

He set the mugs on the coffee table and straightened up. Sherlock and Mary both reached for theirs immediately. 

Without thinking about it, Sherlock picked up his own mug, leaving John’s behind on the table. John felt his eyes widen. He stared at Mary, who stared at him in return, and then they both turned to stare at Sherlock, who was drinking tea like it was the elixir of life.

“What?” He asked when he noticed their stares.

“That’s your mug. You use it every time you visit us here. No-one else uses it. You had three mugs to choose from, and you immediately chose the one that belonged to you.” John’s voice was shaking slightly as he explained. Is it possible that despite the disaster surrounding him, Sherlock’s mind was still trying to break free from the fog?

Sherlock frowned down at the mug, concentrating very hard on the pattern.

“Mine? Why?” It wasn’t a question he was asking them, he was asking himself. He replaced the mug on the coffee table and stood up off of the sofa in one swift movement. “I have to go now, I’m sorry.” He bent down and planted a quick kiss on Mary’s cheek. “Thank you, Mary.”

“My pleasure, Sherlock.” She smiled up at him, but made no movement to get up, leaving John to dutifully show Sherlock out of the flat.

As they reached the door, John felt the guilt rise up again, and he had to say something.”

“Look, Sherlock, about what happened. I’m really sorry. I don’t really know-”

“There’s no need to apologise to me, John. I’m sorry too. I probably said some things I shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah you probably did.” Both men laughed lightly. “Thank you for coming. It meant a lot to both of us that you still came despite… you know.”

“You two, asides form Mrs Hudson and maybe Mycroft, are the only two people to have shown me any kindness or willingness to help me, despite the fact that I still have no recollection of who you are to me. Forgive the very overused and slightly clichéd saying, but you were there for me in a time of need,” Sherlock cringed at his own use of words, it truly sounded like something out of that dreadful film he’d just been watching, “it seemed only fair I return the favour.”

“It's not a favour, Sherlock, I wanted to.” They held each others gaze after John said this, letting the words drift between them, and John felt the rift that separated them close slightly. Sherlock held out his hand, and John took it without a moments hesitation.

“All the best, John Watson.”

“You too, Sherlock. Please, come and visit us again, any time. Just give us a bit more warning next time, okay?” A smirk appeared at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

“Of course.” He released John’s hand, and exited the flat, leaving John to watch the edge of his coat whip around the corner from the open door. John closed it and returned to Mary. He wanted to ask what Mary had spoken about with Sherlock, but when he moved into the living room, he fond Mary curled up on the sofa, fast asleep.

John smiled as he watched her, before picking up the three mugs, all still half full, and moving them back into the kitchen.

Questions could wait.


	15. Chapter 15

3 months, as it turned out, was no time at all.

Mary had been moved permanently into a hospice, where she would stay until… until it was time.

She'd had her first fit a few days before, and it was the most terrifying thing John had ever had to encounter – even more paralyzing than when he thought he'd been locked in a lab with an enormous hound.

He'd felt so helpless, unable to reach his wife as her body flailed out of control. He was lucky he was a doctor, for if he wasn't, he would never have known what to do. But John didn't want to be alone in this, especially now there were fits involved. John wanted more qualified people around her at all times. He also wanted her to be comfortable, and the hospice could provide all of this and more.

There had only been 2 more fits since Mary had arrived, and John hadn't moved from her side. He held tightly onto her hand and never wanted to let go. He got very little sleep, always wanting to constantly watch over Mary. If something happened to her whilst he was sleeping, unable to do anything to help her, he would never forgive himself. He thrived on coffee and adrenaline, knowing that sooner or later he was going to crash – hard. But whilst Mary needed him, his body sustained efficient energy levels so he could stay with her.

Sherlock came to visit regularly. He'd been taking cases again, Lestrade had called him in to solve a locked room murder – honestly, could New Scotland Yard really not solve these by now? There had been plenty of them!

Gradually, it seemed like the foundations of their friendship were beginning to lay themselves back down. Sherlock still wasn't fully trusting of John, nor did he remember any of their shared memories, despite the fact that he had read each and every entry on John's blog, twice. Every now and then, he'd say or do something that reminded John of a time before, but as soon as anyone pointed it out Sherlock would close up again and leave.

Mary was glad for the visits. Obviously she loved having John there all the time – a comforting constant in a world that was spiraling out of control – but she enjoyed hearing about the lives of others. John guessed that it was to take her mind off of the fact that she didn't really have a life anymore.

John was a very caring partner, and he never pushed Mary to do or say anything she didn't want to. But there was one thing bothering him.

John wanted to know what Sherlock and Mary had talked about when Sherlock had first visited.

"You want to know."

John was sitting in a daze, and clearly hadn't noticed. Mary's words brought him back to the present. She was lying on her bed, curled up in a ball facing John, looking up at him through her long eyelashes. One hand was tucked under her pillow they'd bought with them from home, cradling it to her head, which was resting lightly on it. Her other hand was held tightly in John's.

"You want to know," she repeated. Sherlock's hatred for repetition had rubbed off on John, who tried not to voice this.

"Want to know what?"

"You want to know what Sherlock and I talked about." Of course Mary could figure it out. She'd always been able to read him like a book, and today was obviously no different.

"Yeah." What was the point in denying it? If Mary didn't want to tell him, she wouldn't. But if she was willing to… Well, John wasn't going to deny it.

"We were talking about you." This took John completely by surprise. In hindsight, it probably shouldn't have, seeing as Sherlock wished to speak to Mary in private, and asked John to leave the room.

"Me?"

"Yeah, about you, John."

"What about me?" It came out a little more harshly than John was expecting, and sounded incredibly accusing. He hoped Mary didn't pick up on it.

"Don't sound so accusing," no such luck, "we're not teenagers, it wasn't gossip."

"Sorry." He was, he didn't want Mary to think worse of him. He wanted her to be happy in her final weeks.

"Sherlock was asking me about you. Asking about your life together, an our life together." Of course he was. Sherlock needed answers for everything. Some things hadn't changed, and probably never would. It irritated him to not have the answers to everything. Sherlock didn't know, and he didn't like not knowing – John remembered Sherlock himself saying these words to him after he returned from his 2 year absence. Mary continued with her explanation.

"He told me that he appreciated all that you've done for him, and that he didn't blame you at all for your argument. And he thanked me for letting you stay with him whilst he recovered." Something stirred inside John, probably guilt or remorse, although John would figure it out later, when he wasn't so focused on his wife. It really wasn't Sherlock's fault that they'd argued – John had received devastating news and reacted badly. He never meant to lash out like that. Of course he cared about Sherlock. He and Mary were the two most important people in his life. Mary didn't notice the inner monologue that was streaming through John's head, because she continued.

"I told him that it was never a choice, that you'd always help him. You have a pathological need to take care of those close to you, John. Sherlock agreed." John agreed. He smiled fondly at the very accurate analysis. Only Sherlock Holmes could lose all memory of John and still be able to read him as well as his wife.

"Sounds like me." He laughed lightly. Mary joined in. John kissed her hand, which he was still holding.

"You're still his friend, even now." John frowned. Mary wasn't making sense. Sherlock was his friend, but that was before his accident. Mary could obviously sense John's confusion, or read it on his face. "He was confused about what your relationship was, but even now, he told me that you are the closest friend he's ever had, and probably ever will have, despite what happened. You're the only one who outside of his family who has shown him any kindness or willingness to help. You care for him, therefore he cares for you. But he wasn't sure if you would still consider him a friend after what happened, because so much has obviously changed. So he spoke to me. I told him that of course you do, he'll always be your friend no matter what happened. You could have tried to tell him that, but he needed to hear it from me, because he knew I wouldn't try to lie to him."

John was speechless. Sherlock couldn't possibly have said that about him. But it was very much like Sherlock to sneak around trying to gather information about John if he wasn't sure, rather than confronting John himself.

"Oh." There was no other reaction John could think of. Mary smiled up at him and closed her eyes. She looked peaceful, happy, completely and utterly perfect.

"I just wanted to tell you, because-" she paused, her voice catching slightly as she chocked on her own words, "because I don't think I've got long left, and I needed you to know." There were tears now. Her eyes were still firmly closed, but the tears still trailed down her face and onto the pillow. John wiped them away with his free hand, gently dragging the pad of his thumb along her cheeks.

"Shh, Mary. Don't say that." The moment was so intimate and tender that John filled with emotions. He was very aware of how little time they had left like this, and choose instead to enjoy being in the presence of his beautiful wife, and cherishing every second they had together. His hand moved from her face to stroke her short, blonde hair in what was supposed to be reassuring movements, but John's hands were shaking too much as he became overcome with premature grief. Mary did a good job of pretending not to notice.

"John," Mary's eyes were still closed, "promise me that you'll still help him when this is all over. Please." Her voice was so quiet and pleading that John's heart broke a thousand times over. No. Now was not the time to be making last requests.

No.

John wasn't ready to be making his final promises to his wife.

"Mary-"

"Promise me, John. One last promise." She opened her eyes again, they were still shining with tears that were threatening to spill over. It was obvious that she was scared. 'Bloody terrified' was how she had worded it once the time limit had been given. How could John say no? He simply couldn't.

"I promise."

Mary smiled a watery smile, and bought John's hands up to envelop them in both of her tiny ones. Her skin was cold, but John resolutely did not care. Mary pressed her lips to their joined hands, and John moved forwards to rest his forehead gently against hers.

3 months was not nearly enough time.

"I promise."


	16. Chapter 16

The funeral was on a Thursday.

It was a bright, sunny day. Mary’s favourite kind of weather. 

It was a simple affair, with only a few close family and friends, she wouldn’t have wanted anything more.

There were only two speakers, a close friend of Mary’s and John.

John noticed that they were all crying, except himself and Sherlock – who had come. Mary would have hated it. She would have wanted people to be happy.

John couldn’t remember a time when he’d felt more lost. Well, he could – stood at the foot of St Barts, watching as the blood pooled around a set of dark curls. But this was different. Now there was no magic trick, and Mary would not be coming back. 

He had been there when it happened, he had witnessed her last breath, and heard her last heartbeat. She had been sleeping, and had just drifted away, never to wake up. John supposed that this was for the best. She had been so scared, so utterly terrified – as had he – and now all the pain, the struggle, the fighting was finally over. It was the single most painful experience of his life, and yet at the same time, he had felt numb, refusing to accept that Mary – his beautiful Mary – was gone. 

He felt empty, completely hollow. Everything had been taken from him.

John returned to 221B after it was over. He couldn’t face going back to his own flat, where he and Mary shared so many memories. No.

So he went back to 221B.

John had no idea why he chose to do this. Sherlock couldn’t offer him any sort of comfort – in his mind he was still a high-functioning sociopath, although John knew this to be untrue. 

John deposited his bag in the doorway and moved to the window. He stood there, just staring out of it. If he were Sherlock, he would pick up the violin and play an utterly heart-wrenching piece of music to show how he was feeling. If he were Mrs Hudson, he would insist on talking to someone about it. If he were Harry, he would drink his problems away. But he was not any of these people. He was John Watson, and John Watson didn’t have a clue what to do.

Sherlock had followed him in, having taken a taxi here together. He’d watched John from the doorway, trying to anticipate any sudden reaction.

John closed his eyes against the bright sunlight of the day outside. He no longer felt hollow. Instead, John felt like someone had put a vice around his heart, his lungs, his stomach, everything. Something that felt like a bubble was rising up inside of him, threatening to break free from the shell that he now was. Something was now gripping tightly to the outside of his body, holding him in place. The rising bubble had burst, and John could feel the tremors through his entire body. 

John opened his eyes to find that there actually was something wrapped around him. A pair of arms had wrapped themselves tightly around his shoulders, and his face was now pressed into a thick mass of fabric that made up Sherlock’s well tailored jacket. He buried his face into Sherlock, as sobbing began to accompany the tremors. His hands fisted in Sherlock’s shirt, so even if Sherlock wanted to pull away, he couldn’t. 

John needed this, he needed the comfort, and was grateful that Sherlock had the good sense to deduce what John needed.

“I’m sorry, John. She was an incredible woman.”

“You didn’t know her.” John was choking on the words, and, in a different situation, would have been amazed that Sherlock was able to recognise them as words. But the time for being amazed with Sherlock’s ability was definitely not at this moment. 

“But I did, once. And I wish I could remember, because then I could help more, but I just don’t know what to do.”

“This,” John said, unfurling one of his hands from the ridiculously expensive shirt that Sherlock wore and wrapping it around Sherlock to reach his back and pull him closer, “is good.” This is what John needed. A friend. Even if Sherlock didn’t realise this, or know who John was, John was grateful just to have the source of comfort that Sherlock provided.

He allowed himself to be overcome with the grief that he’d been forcing back. He had been determined to at least make it to Mary’s funeral without completely surrendering to the crushing sadness. He had succeeded, feeling only empty until now, not allowing himself to feel, to accept that this was happening.

John didn’t know how long they had stood there, but soon, the exhaustion began to creep in. He’d run out of tears long before, but the shaking hadn’t stopped. They hadn’t moved an inch, Sherlock still forming a protective, comforting barrier between John and the outside world, as if it could shield him from all the pain and heartbreak that Sherlock knew that John didn’t deserve.

Eventually, John extracted himself from Sherlock’s tight grasp and straightened himself. He knew what was happening, he was falling back into Captain Watson. He quickly looked up at his (now, again) flat mate, gave a short nod before turning away to make his way up to his bedroom. 

He did not want to talk.

He wanted to be alone.

As a wise man once told him, alone protects people.

Alone was what he needed.


	17. Chapter 17

There were not a lot of things that Sherlock Holmes didn’t understand.

The sheer levels of Anderson’s ever increasing stupidity was one.

John Watson was another.

Sherlock was spread out on the entire length of the sofa with his fingers steepled and resting under his chin, eye closed, completely blocking out the rest of the world’s existence. It was what John liked to refer to as the ‘thinking pose’. Ridiculous. Sherlock Holmes did not ‘pose’.

He was thinking – or more specifically, thinking about John Watson. He was a walking enigma. Soldier and Doctor. Capable of inflicting a wound and then healing it. The man was a living contradiction and it infuriated Sherlock. It was so much that it was because John was a contradiction, it was the fact that Sherlock had once known all about John, about why he was like this. Knowing that he once possessed the answer to the impossible puzzle that John provided, and due to one tiny mistake, a misjudgment, an error, it was all lost.

All data from the last 5 years was lost. Everything. It was like someone had boxed up several rooms in his mind palace and moved out permanently. From reading John’s blogs, Sherlock deduced that he’d missed out on some of the most interesting and ridiculous cases he’d ever encountered. Why on earth had he ended up running down an alley in a ninja costume? And there was the Woman – just who was she, and why had she posed such a threat? The Hound – it was intriguing, as he was not often involved with cases of the supernatural, although as it turned out, the was never any supernatural elements involved. And Moriarty. Oh, how Sherlock would have loved to remember him, the most interesting of all cases – the consulting criminal.

Sherlock suddenly felt a surge of jealousy towards himself – the him that had gone on all of these incredible cases. It was hard to tell if the cases had really been like that, and if his deductions had been that amazing because John had a terrible habit of romanticizing things.

A flash of yellow passed through Sherlock’s mind and he could see John’s face swimming in front of hi. His face was angled up, and Sherlock vaguely recognized that he was looking down at John as he was stood.

_“Of course, he does tend to romanticise things a bit, but then, you know, he’s a romantic...”_

The voice sounded distant and faint, as if Sherlock was listening to it through a layer of water. As soon as the image had appeared, it vanished. He tried desperately to cling to it. He had these flashes occasionally, and no matter how hard he tried he could never hold onto them for a significant amount of time.

They also gave him the most awful headache.

On the night where he’d run out on John, after having remembered the waltz that he had apparently written for John and Mary for their wedding. The pain had been god-awful – it felt like someone was using a blunt axe in a vain attempt of slicing his head open. He’d needed something – anything – to distract him from this torturous pain.

Which was his excuse for falling back into old habits.

John didn’t know, and probably didn’t care. Well, that’s what he’d told Mycroft when he was found, high as a kite, unceremoniously bundled into the back of the black car and found himself face to face with his older brother. He’d never seen Mycroft so angry in his life. If Sherlock was being honest, he had been more than a little scared of Mycroft. His voice had been so harsh, so cutting. So accusing. Mycroft never shouted, but he did then. He’d shouted about how much Sherlock was damaging his body – which had been through enough recently without returning to ‘the sauce’ as Mycroft so elegantly put it. And Sherlock hadn’t put up a word in his defense, because what was the point? There was no defense. Sherlock knew he’d done something stupid but he really just hadn’t cared by this point.

But what had cut Sherlock down to his core was when Mycroft had bought John into the argument.

_“Sherlock, the man’s given up his domestic life to help you. This is how you want to repay him? By destroying your body again? He’s been trying to find you since you left the flat. He’s a mess. He had to call on me for help, Sherlock, because he needed to find you. You have no idea how much you mean to John. Don’t put John through this again, he doesn’t deserve it and never has. Especially not now…”_

And that’s when Sherlock had learned of Mary’s tumor, and John’s attentions had been diverted elsewhere.

Sherlock made Mycroft swear that he wouldn’t tell John. Mycroft had agreed – a shocking feat. Mycroft never agreed with Sherlock, at least not out loud. But the promise had come with a condition.

Sherlock had to tell John himself, or Mycroft would intervene.

Sherlock had never liked Mycroft invading his private life, so he accepted the deal grudgingly.

John was so caught up with Mary, and Sherlock didn’t want to take him away from her. He didn’t want to worry him with his relapse. Sherlock had taken great care to hide it. John only had to lift Sherlock’s sleeves and there he would see the track marks. But kind, trusting John would never have even considered the possibilities of Sherlock relapsing.

He honestly wasn’t trying to insult John when he’d said those things about being more important than Mary. He just thought that he’d give John the push he needed, and would ensure that he wasn’t fixating on Sherlock when he was supposed to be taking care of his wife. He knew that no-one was more important in John’s life than Mary – it was never even a question.

His heart broke for the loss of such an amazing woman. In a time when he’d been at his most vulnerable, Mary and John had supported him, treated him like a friend, even when that was called into question. And how had he repaid them?

He felt nothing but self-loathing. He wanted to tear his own skin off, wanted to disappear. He wasn’t worthy of John’s care and attentions.

But John needed him, needed him to stay strong.

So he did.

He did not relapse again. He was always awake when John was. He did whatever task John asked of him. But John’s eyes had lost their light, and the life seemed to have been sucked out of him. He spent most of the day locked up in his room, pacing. Sherlock could hear the heavy footprints and they moved back and forth across the small space.

Another flash of colour. A brilliant blood red splattered across a gloomy grey. And there was John’s face again. This time his face was above Sherlock, angled down towards him. The same blank, empty look clouded his features.

_“Let me through, please. He’s my friend. He’s my friend…”_

John’s voice was clearer now and he sounded utterly wrecked. A jolt of pain shot through Sherlock’s abdomen. Sherlock knew that the pain was in his mind, but it hurt nonetheless. And the pain in his head increased further.

His eyes flew open. It was now dark outside of the windows of Baker Street, meaning that Sherlock had been thinking for over 5 hours. It was so easy to get caught up in his own thoughts. Sometimes a whole day would pass and he wouldn’t notice.

There was shuffling upstairs, and Sherlock heard the familiar footsteps again, although this time, they were not pacing around in the middle of the room. They were descending the stairs to the living room.

Sherlock immediately moved to the kitchen, pretending that he had not just been thinking about John for a whole five hours – people might talk. Suddenly, Sherlock found himself clutching his head as another colour filled his vision, the headache now worse than it had ever been. He gripped the kitchen counter for support, trying to stay upright.

Blue, shimmering light danced across his mind’s eye, and the suffocating smell of chlorine filled his nose. There was John, above him once again. Always John. Always.

_“You taking off my clothes in a darkened swimming pool – people might talk…”_

_“People do little else..”_

His own voice pierced through the scene. Strange. In the short flashes, it was only ever John’s voice. This had to be a good sign. Not only were the flashes increasing in frequency, now they contained more details.

Sherlock filed this away in his mind palace for further analysis later. Now was not the time. John had just entered the kitchen, standing in the middle of the doorway.

He looked like a man who’d just returned from the dead, probably felt like one too. But Sherlock made no move to begin the conversation, and waited for John to begin speaking.


	18. Chapter 18

It wasn’t exactly as if someone had switched on a light in John, no. Nothing in the world could restore John’s light at the moment. It had been two weeks since Mary’s funeral, and without her to guide him, Sherlock could see that John was completely lost. He looked like he’d aged at least ten years, and he always seemed so exhausted. After he’d been standing in the doorway for a good few minutes, John opened his mouth, as if to say something.

But John either wouldn’t, or couldn’t speak. Sherlock believed it was the latter, as John had struck him as a man who knew what to say in most situations. He’d always offered Sherlock reassurance when he’d needed it in these past months. He’d always known exactly what to say, even when Sherlock was trying to make life as difficult as possible for the army doctor. He regretted that now. All John had done was continue to be a friend to Sherlock, and Sherlock had shut him out in favour of sulking and wallowing in self pity.

What did he do to deserve this man as a friend? Clearly, the old Sherlock must have done something incredibly heroic or selfless. He scoffed at this idea. Heroes didn’t exist – but it sounded exactly like something John would try to do, turn him into a hero. Again with the romanticism.

Sherlock had not turned from John, who was still standing in the doorway to the kitchen, randomly opening and closing his mouth, but struggling to form words. Every instinct of Sherlock screamed at him to tell John to get on with it, that he had important experiments to be getting on with and really John was just wasting his time now. But he fought against them, determined to be at least a fraction of the good friend that John had been to him. But John shut his mouth, nodded, turned, and promptly walked back up the stairs and returned to his room for another indeterminate period of time. Sherlock listened, and sure enough, John had begun to pace the length of his room again. Back and forth. Back and forth.

It was still dark outside, and the clock in the kitchen – must have been John’s influence, Sherlock did not remember putting a clock here, or even having a desire to have a clock in the kitchen – told him that it was 8pm, still early.

Sherlock sighed, partly in frustration, partly due to another emotion that he couldn’t name. It wasn’t empathy, or sympathy – Sherlock’s brain did not process either of these. But maybe he did now.

 _Christ_ , he thought, _being a good friend is much harder than I anticipated._ Sherlock didn’t know if he could be bothered with the effort anymore.

A sharp, familiar pain flashed through Sherlock’s skull, but no singular colour flashed across his vision this time. Instead, when Sherlock closed his eyes Sherlock saw Baker Street, or to be more specific, their kitchen. Sherlock was stood, hands clasped together in front of him. John was sat down on one of the wooden chairs at the end of the table, looking up at Sherlock with a mixture of worry, amusement and disbelief. Sherlock felt disoriented.

John’s face was as clear as if he were stood in front of Sherlock. But this was a memory – it had the slight clouded haze around the outskirts of Sherlock’s peripheral vision within the memory, clearly unimportant information that he had deleted, or had lost along with five years of his life. His own deep baritone echoed through this memory.

_“So in fact… You- You mean…”_

_“Yes.”_

_“_ _I’m your..”_

_“Yes.”_

_“Best…”_

_“Man.”_

_“…Friend?”_

The last words were almost simultaneous, the words overlapping each other – John’s voice sounded completely normal, as if he was pointing out an obvious fact. Sherlock realized that his own had been quieter, softer. His whole being filled with a sudden kind of warmth at the realisation that John Watson – amazing, puzzling, patient, infuriating, kind John – considered Sherlock to be his best friend.

_“Yeah,  of course you are. Of course you’re my best friend.”_

When Sherlock came back form his flashback, he noticed he was doubled over in pain, hands clutching his skull so forcefully that it felt like he was going to crush it. The pain kept building, an uncomfortable pressure was rising just behind his eyes and he began to feel nauseous. Never had a memory been so strong – not only an image, but a conversation, and even emotions. But with a memory this strong, the headache that Sherlock was experiencing was the most painful yet.

The consultants, doctors and various psychologists and therapists had told Sherlock before he’d been discharged from the hospital that migraines were to be expected, but this – this was torturous. A small whine managed to escape past Sherlock’s lips as the pain reached it’s peak. The nausea kept building.

 Sherlock dropped his hands and ran to the kitchen sink – there wasn’t enough time to make it to the bathroom – and threw up violently. His stomach seemed intent on emptying itself of all its contents, which wasn’t much. Sherlock continued to heave, his throat was burning, he felt dizzy – surely the room must have been spinning for him to feel like this.

His mind palace was in disarray. Everything was throwing itself around, there was no sense of order. The paint was peeling, the doors were flying open until everything was thrown together, all one huge bundle of information and memories and theories and feelings until Sherlock couldn’t think clearly. Random thoughts were flitting through his head at lightning speed.

_The experiment he’d been working on last week, Mycroft’s birthday, solving a particularly nasty locked room murder, playing pirates with his father, Mrs Hudson’s favourite type of flower, the various rock types of each and every street in London. On and on and on…_

He didn’t hear the footsteps above him stop, and them rush back down to the kitchen.

_The many and varied routes he used to walk with Redbeard, the chemical value of mercury, getting pneumonia when he was eight, his first experience with cocaine…_

He did not hear John curse as he took in the sight of the detective, still leaning over the sink as his body expelled the contents of his stomach.

_The first time he’d been allowed on a crime scene, his sixteenth birthday, university, the first time he’d met Anderson…_

He didn’t notice John cross the kitchen and reach him.

_The first time someone called him a freak, when he’d been sent to Eton, experimenting and identifying 243 types of tobacco ash…_

A hand was rubbing soothing circles into his back, and a voice made its way through the chaos of Sherlock’s mind.

“It’s okay, Sherlock, it’s okay. You’re okay, I’m here.”

Everything stilled, and Sherlock thought of nothing, the hand at his back providing an anchor for Sherlock to cling to, to keep him grounded. His body stopped betraying itself, and Sherlock attempted to stand, but his legs didn’t seem able to support him. Sherlock began to fall to the floor, but what he was not expecting was the pair of strong arms that caught him, and lowered him gently to the floor so he was sat with his back to the kitchen worktop, knees drawn up to his chest. He heard John get up, and Sherlock fully expected him to leave again, but he returned only a moment later with a glass of water and two tablets resting in the palm of his hand.

“I’m so sorry Sherlock,” John murmured as he passed the water and painkillers over to him. “I didn’t- Shit. I’m sorry, I should have at least asked. I didn’t realize it was this bad.” Sherlock swallowed the pills and drained the entire glass, which John refilled, and then he drained that too.

“Not your fault,” Sherlock managed to croak and John slumped next to him so they were sat shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. “You’ve been attending to other, more important matters.” Sherlock’s hands seemed to snake their way up into his dark curls again and clutched at them, almost tearing them from his skull This seemed to snap John out of whatever daze he’d been in.

 “Yeah, but still, I could have at least checked on you.” He ran his hands through his hair. “What’s been happening?” His eyes turned to Sherlock, and he moved so he was sat in front of Sherlock. His hands caught Sherlock’s wrists, and gently removed Sherlock’s hands from his hair, bringing them down to hold them between his own. Sherlock’s eyes – grey now – came up to meet John’s blue ones.

They stayed there for a moment, locked in the shared gaze, before John broke the eye-contact, choosing instead to look at both sets of their hands, still clasped together between them.

“What’s been happening?” He repeated.

“I-” Sherlock started. “It’s long and difficult to explain.”

“We’ve got time. We have all night.” John looked back up at Sherlock as he said it, and his fingers clutched a little tighter around Sherlock’s in what he hoped was a reassuring pressure.

And with that, Sherlock began to tell John exactly what had been happening from the moment he woke up in the hospital.


	19. Chapter 19

_I am not hearing this. Please tell me I am not hearing this._

John needed to escape, but something, loyalty or duty, kept him exactly where he was, still keeping a firm grasp on Sherlock’s hands.

Why did all the worst things happen to people who absolutely did not deserve it?

During the three weeks they had spent away from each other, when Mary was still alive, with breathe in her lungs and a beating heart, Sherlock had stayed with Mycroft. He’d gone back to Baker Street on the day he’d visited John and Mary.

He’d gone back to work, solving cases for Lestrade with apparent ease, just like they used to. Except, Sherlock never had. In his mind, he’d always worked alone. He did not know what it was like to work with John on a crime scene.

But more importantly, Sherlock had relapsed. It made John want to punch a wall, want to punch Sherlock. But no. He didn’t. He wanted to hold Sherlock and never let him go, even just to save him from his own mind.

John gently took hold of Sherlock’s arm, and turned the underside towards the light so he good get a better look. There they were. The tiny, pink, tell-tale specks. Track marks. Sherlock made an effort to turn it back, and then hid his face in his shoulder, obviously ashamed.

John regained his grasp on Sherlock’s hand and let out a breath he’d obviously been holding, but had no awareness of.

“Shit.”

Sherlock was refusing to look at him, eyes firmly staring at the floor, which was apparently much more interesting than John.

“Sherlock, I-”

“Please don’t bother John. I don’t care for your pity.” Sherlock pulled his hands out of John’s grasp as if he suddenly realized what he was doing, leaving John stunned and a little hurt. Sherlock straightened up and his face was slipping into the blank mask Sherlock used to cover his real emotions. He was once again becoming the high-functioning sociopath he believe himself to be, shutting the world out and leaving him to the mercy of his torturing and dangerous thoughts.

John sucked in a deep breath and tried again, determined to get through to the man who only a few minutes ago was opened up to him, like the man he was when he knew John. It was like John had been getting him back, and a tiny flame of hope had sparked itself in the pit of John’s stomach.

“Sherlock-”

“ _Delete it_.” Sherlock’s voice was cutting and sharp, and John felt himself physically flinch away from the deep and dangerous tones lacing themselves through Sherlock’s words. Very much like the man John had first met during the case ‘A Study In Pink’, and the tiny flame of hope that his best friend could still be in there, tucked away in a forgotten corner of Sherlock’s mind palace, was extinguished with those two words.

But as John looked closely at Sherlock, he saw a shadow of fear cross his face. Fear for letting himself become vulnerable? Fear for never recovering, and never knowing the stranger who stayed with him and tried to help? Fear of his own emotions? Any of these seemed likely. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was softer, and he looked almost apologetic that he had been so harsh – a small part of the man John knew coming back to him, but not enough – never enough.

“Delete this conversation. You know about deleting, don’t you?”

“Yes, but-”

“Then it never happened. None of it. And we will never mention it again.”

John could only nod at this. Sherlock could be intimidating at the best of times and John didn’t dare argue. All the fight had gone out of him. His wife was gone, and his best friend trapped inside his own head, unable to get out. What was the point? Besides, with Sherlock relapsing, who knew what kind of mental state this put him in. John didn’t want to risk it. He couldn’t lose what little he had left of the man he had once been so close to, had been his best friend, his best man, probably the best man John would ever know.

With John’s nod of acknowledgement, Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say more, but then closed it quickly again, biting his lip and swooped across the kitchen to the front door, gathered his coat and scarf and made a prompt exit.

John considered going after him, but was not sure that the action would be appreciated, especially after hearing what happened the previous time and then told in no uncertain terms that he was never to bring the subject up again. However, John felt that someone should be keeping an eye on Sherlock, and who better than Big Brother himself. John’s lips quirked into a smile reminiscent of Sherlock’s as he internally praised himself for his excellent Orwell reference.

_Sherlock’s gone out. Didn’t say where. Didn’t say how long. –JW_

The reply was almost instantaneous.

_I am monitoring the situation, but thank you for your concern, Doctor Watson. – MH_

The fact that Mycroft obviously had surveillance on the flat should have made John uncomfortable, but he had always suspected something.

He paced around the flat, at a loss for what to do with himself. He could feel his hear beating at a record pace. He was vaguely aware that he was shaking, trembling like a taught violin string that had been plucked a little too violently. He felt on edge, and needed to get out.

And that’s what he did. He mirrored Sherlock’s earlier movements, although perhaps with not as much grace and agility – seriously, every movement that man made wouldn’t have looked out of place in the royal ballet.

As John made his way into the brisk London air, his legs defaulted to the familiar route which took him to his favourite pub.

It was loud there, and very crowded. Obviously there was an important match on that John was unaware of. He was just about to turn around and try his luck elsewhere when he heard a familiar voice over the rabble of the crowd.

"John?"

John turned to see a flash of silvery-grey hair, longer than when he last saw it, and a broad grin spreading across the face of a man who looked genuinely pleased to see him there.

"Greg, good to see you. I really need to see a friendly face."

"I’ll bet.” Greg grabbed John by the elbow and dragged him to the bar, where by some miracle there were two spare seats next to each other. If John believed in fate, he would see it as a sign that he was destined to run into Lestrade. But as it is, John didn’t believe in any of that stuff. They each ordered a pint and had drained half of their glasses before Lestrade pressed the conversation forward. “How are you?"

"Holding up, I guess.” John sighed and thought there really wasn’t any point in lying to Lestrade. He was the closest friend John had at the moment. Maybe it was the alcohol, but John felt like he really needed to vent to someone. “Just about ready to break, you know?"

"Christ, I can imagine.” Lestrade gave him a sympathetic and very manly slap on the back, withdrawing to drain the rest of his pint. “Are things really that bad?"

John let out a short laugh, but there wasn’t anything remotely funny. "They shouldn't be. I should be able to mourn the loss of my wife with my best friend there to support me." It was now John’s turn to turn his attention to the remainder of his drink.

"But?"

"But he's not there.” John slammed his empty glass on the bar. He saw Lestrade watching him carefully, obviously startled at the sudden outburst, but John continued anyway. “And now I have to look out for him and make sure he's okay and not running around getting high again – did you know he’d relapsed?” Greg shook his head, eyes widening in surprise. They sat in silence and ordered another drink. “But there's no-one looking out for me, Greg. I can't go to Sherlock and talk about this because he doesn't get it. He doesn't know me anymore, he doesn’t think he ever has."

"Jesus, John." Apparently there was nothing else the DI could offer John, so John continued to let out everything he’d been repressing since he’d lost Mary.

"And he just doesn't seem to give a damn."

"Hey, now that's not fair.” Lestrade was frowning at him, giving John a slightly accusing look. “It's hard for him as well,” he remarked, holding his drink up as he raised a finger to point at John, as is this made what he was saying any more important.

"Please _do_ enlighten me," John muttered with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

Greg set down his now empty glass, and screwed his face up in mild concentration, trying to find the best words to use in the situation. "Well, he doesn't remember you're his friend, yes?” He turned to John to seek confirmation, which John provided in a minute nod. “In his mind, he's the same person he was 5 years ago, but at the same time he's aware that he's lived those past 5 years."

Lestrade was just stating the obvious now. "Yeah, he get's flashbacks sometimes. Gives him a killer headache but it's kind of reassuring." John felt guilty that this reassured him, but it was a sign that the Sherlock of those 5 years was in there, just trapped, and fighting to get out.

"Well, I knew him back then, he would still turn up to crime scenes and insult our intelligence in every way possible.” He laughed wryly, and even John couldn’t help a chuckle escape him at the memories of Sherlock insulting NSY on numerous occasions. “But now it's different. He came back a few months ago, but he doesn't act like he did back then."

"Oh?" John raised his eyebrows, bringing up his drink to his lips.

"He- Well, he kind of looks a bit lost without you, mate." John nearly choked on his drink.

" _Lost_?"

"Yeah.” Lestrade nodded, eyes on his empty glass, refusing to meet John’s eyes, which were now staring at Greg as if he’d grown an extra head. “He'll be spouting of his usual stuff, you know, the 'deductions', and he'll turn around, like he's looking for someone. Completely stops his train of thought and he's got no bloody clue where he left off."

John was lost for words. It was a good few seconds before he thought of a suitable response, enough time for Lestrade to order his third drink, whilst John was still only halfway through his second. "Wow, that's not something you see everyday."

"Exactly,” replied Lestrade, finally choosing to look at John. “You know, I asked him once - after he'd done it three or four times - what he was looking for."

"And what did he say?"

"He didn't know.” Lestrade shrugged. “He just told me that something was missing, completely unrelated to the investigation."

"Any ideas what that was?"

Lestrade drained his glass again, then turned his attention fully to John. "Not a clue,” he answered, shaking his head. His expression turned thoughtful, and then he averted his eye, choosing to look at his feet as he continued, “but if I have to put money on it, I'd bet my entire salary that it was you."


	20. Chapter 20

After leaving the flat, Sherlock made his way to the only place he could think to go – St Bart’s. He needed data, science, facts. Not these stupid, useless feelings that the rest of the world insisted on having. No. He was not like the rest of the world.

He pushed through the double doors that segmented the corridors in the hospital, treading an old and familiar route to Molly Hooper’s lab. It probably wasn’t the best equipped lab in the hospital, but Molly allowed him access to it on a regular basis, she’d even provided him with a key card. He wondered, fleetingly, whether John had also been given a key card, but soon dismissed these thoughts. Thinking about John Watson was sentiment, and Sherlock needed fact.

Molly was already seated at her usual stool, concentrating on preparing a slide for the microscope – blood samples presumably. She obviously was too wrapped up in her own work to hear Sherlock enter the room. Strange. She was usually so observant and attentive when it came to Sherlock.

Before Sherlock ‘lost his memory’ – God, how he hated that phrase, surely there was something much more interesting and intellectual then simply loosing one’s memory – Molly, had fussed around Sherlock as a small puppy would with their owner.  She often came across as far too eager and forward, which had put Sherlock off almost immediately. But she was useful. As well as providing him with the lab space, Molly was the only person within the hospital walls who was willing to bend the rules to get Sherlock what he wanted, be it access to the morgue or the odd liver or too.

Her attraction had been blatantly obvious from the moment she set eyes on him. It was in this very lab, she was just starting her first day here in Bart’s and Sherlock happened to be right in the middle of a case. She’d smiled and giggled at all of Sherlock’s explanations as to why he was there, even though there was nothing remotely funny about them. Her hands had made their way up to her ponytail and her fingers played with the long, reddish brown strands of hair.

Sherlock had initially dismissed the quiet, meek pathologist. And for the next several cases that required him to use the lab, he had pointedly ignored her. He’d realised her use when he was trying to gain access to the files of two dead women, and the pathologist on shift was refusing to give them to him. Then Molly had shown up to take over, and all it had taken was smile, some small talk and a cheeky wink and she melted like butter. It took him ten minutes to get the file.

But she’s changed since ‘the accident’. Molly was more reserved now, and was standing up to Sherlock a lot more. Clearly, something must have happened to make her like this. What it was, Sherlock could not figure out. And there was nothing Sherlock liked more than a puzzle. His intention had been to acquire a new set of kidneys to experiment on, but the kidneys could wait. This was much more interesting.

He glided up behind her an bent over to examine her process.

“Anything good?”

She started violently, turning forcefully in her chair. Wen she realised who it was, she immediately relaxed. Then, she proceeded to hit him over the arm with her tiny, yet surprisingly forceful hands. The sensation of her hits seemed familiar, yet unwelcome. Sherlock caught her wrist in his own hands and held them out of hitting range. She pulled her hand out of his grasp and folded her arms across her body.

“Sherlock Holmes, you can’t just sneak up on people like that. You’ll make them die of fright.”

Sherlock scoffed at this. Honestly, did people seriously believe that it was actually possible to ‘die of fright’. It was a ridiculous concept.

“Impossible, Molly, and you know it.”

She sighed in resignation and turned back to her blood samples. Sherlock walked around the lad a few times, under the pretense of finding something interesting to experiment with, but the whole time he kept his gaze on Molly, still trying to deduce the reason for the change in her behaviour. But try as he might, he could not deduce a single thing, and accepted the fact that it was probably in the locked corridor of his mind palace. After his third loop of the lab, Molly turned back to him, obviously buzzing with frustration that he too was experiencing.

“What do you want Sherlock?”

“Why do you behave differently?” Sherlock slammed his hand down on the lab counter.

She looked taken aback. Her eyebrows were raised and her mouth parted in surprise.

“I’m sorry?” She sputtered, obviously trying to collect herself after the brief moment of surprise. Sherlock leaned over towards her, narrowing his eyes as he scanned her and took in her whole appearance. She’d put on 6lbs since he last remembered her. Sherlock was just about to point this out to her, but something in his mind which sounded alarmingly like John’s voice told him that this would be ‘a bit not good’. He settled instead fro getting to the root of his problem.

“Before you were always so attentive towards me. But now, you just sort of get on with it.”

Now her brows furrowed in confusion and her eyes moved downwards towards the floor, the direction they always went when she was trying to figure something out.

“I’m not quite sure I understand.” He voice was quiet, yet the confusion was easy to pick out. Sherlock sighed and walked calmly towards her. When he was right next to where she was sat, he leaned back against the counter and folded his arms.

“Neither do I.”

Molly’s head snapped up and she stared wide eyed at him. Clearly, this was still the first time she’d ever heard him admit out loud that he was confused and out of his depth.

“Excuse me?”

Sherlock had always hated repetition, and was in no mood to be indulging in other people’s requirements that he state his point more than once.

“You were attracted to me, and now that’s changed. I don’t understand it and I can’t figure it out so I’m asking you. Why?”

Molly flushed bright red and averted her gaze.

“Oh, gosh… Um… Well, after you jumped from the roof-”

“I what?”

 _Jumped? From a roof?_ How much was Sherlock actually missing from his life?

“Oh, you don’t know? Did John not tell you?”

 _No_ , thought Sherlock. _We’re not exactly on speaking terms at the moment_. Sherlock recalled the last few hours, where he’d opened up to John, and how humiliated and vulnerable he’d felt after doing so. 

“Tell me what?”

“You died to save him.”

 _Died._ The word echoed around the halls of his mind palace. He blinked rapidly and he stopped himself from breathing too deeply – it would convey his panic at the word. He forced himself to deliver a cutting remark.

“Molly, I am aware that your intelligence does not match or even come close to my own but surely even you can see the flaw in that statement.” 

“No, I mean, you faked your death to save John, and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson.” 

“Why?”

“Because you cared about them.” 

His head was spinning. He could feel the splitting pain returning, as if someone was ramming a white hot needle straight through his skull until it pierced the other side. He felt his vision go funny, and could feel wind whipping around him. But there shouldn’t be any wind in the lab.

He was stood on a rooftop, presumably Bart’s Hospital from the look of the street below. The wind was swirling around him and he could feel a trail of tears running down his face. His arms were stretched out to the side, like angel’s wings and he took a step forward, off of the edge of the building.

_SHERLOCK!_

The sound of John’s agonizing shout pierced through his mind and brought him immediately back to the present. Molly’s hands were wrapped around his arms, keeping him upright. His own hands were tangled in his hair, almost ripping it out.

“Sherlock?” Molly’s voice was not so quiet now, a gentle force to bring him out of his own head. “Hey,” she whispered gently as she removed his hands from his hair before he could do any damage. Sherlock despeartely gasped in great lungfuls of air, filling his burning lungs.

“But- I’m- I can’t. I’m a sociopath.”

Molly hit him over the arm again, although not as forcefully, just a playful tap, as if to remind him what she was capable of and snap him out of his current mood.

“That’s a load of rubbish.” When Sherlock looked down at Molly, he could see the absolute sincerity in her eyes. She truly did not believe him to be a sociopath, and for some reason, this made him smile internally. Externally, he was still trying to breath like a normal human being, and failing. Molly grabbed an extra stool for him and forced him down by his shoulders, once again proving that there was more to the pathologist that meets the eye. She allowed Sherlock a few moments to collect himself before speaking again.

“You changed when you met John. He made you more human. You cared for him a lot more than anybody thought possible – including yourself. That’s why I backed off. Some people even thought you were in love with him.”

Sherlock’s heart jumped, and his head snapped to the person beside him. Molly didn’t turn, refusing to meet his eye, but well aware of his intense gaze upon her. Once upon a time, this would have intimidated Molly, but not anymore.

“In love? With John?”

Molly nodded her head, still not looking at Sherlock.

“It was a bit obvious. Your eyes followed him everywhere. You made an effort to make him smile or laugh, and if anyone ever hurt him, well, you saw to it that they got ten times worse. And I knew you loved him in some sort of way the moment you left his wedding early.”

 _Love. Caring. Sentiment._ It was all too much, and Sherlock could tell this conversation was moving into dangerous territory that he was not yet ready to explore. Instead, he chose to move it back to a topic that perhaps he could focus on a little more.

“How did I fake my death? And why was that necessary in the first place?”

Molly shifted uncomfortably next to him.

“I don’t think it’s really my place to say. Maybe you should ask John to-”

“Tell me. Now, Molly Hooper.”

Molly closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

“There was a man, his name was Jim Moriarty…”


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock left the lab swiftly after his conversation with Molly. Her explanation of Moriarty and, what she’d named ‘The Fall’, were surprisingly quick and to the point, cutting down the time he actually had to spend listening to her. It seemed that she’d finally picked up the hints that he simply wasn’t interested and only kept her around because she was useful to gain access where Bart’s wouldn’t normally allow him.

He knew he’d have to talk to John about the finer details of Moriarty’s involvement in his life, and ‘The Fall’. But it seemed unlikely that John would want to talk to him right now, not after the way Sherlock had treated them back in Baker Street only hours before.

Christ. Sherlock really was an idiot – despite all evidence, and self-declaration to the contrary. Sherlock had insulted, manipulated and pushed away possibly the only person willing to help Sherlock other than his brother, and Sherlock would not tolerate being in his brother’s care for any longer than necessary. John was his flatmate. Friend? Sherlock didn’t know. Sherlock had never had any ‘real’ or ‘proper’ friends, and that fact that he’d had one, but can’t remember, and was unable to keep hold of him was absolute torture. He wanted to hold on to what he had with John – or had in the past – and hold it tightly and not let go. It made him sound like a petulant toddler, but, as Mycroft, Lestrade and Mummy had so often reminded him, that was just how he acted sometimes. 

And now, he’d possibly thrown it all away because he’d opened up and allowed himself to become vulnerable. Vulnerability was not something Sherlock was used to, and had been surprised at he own weakness. But more than that, it scared him just how easily he’d opened up to the army doctor. It had been a glimpse of what life had been like before Sherlock’s injury and consequent amnesia. He wanted that. He wanted to be able to be able to have John as a friend and keep him, bundled up in many layers made of all of his ridiculous jumpers to make sure he’d never get hurt, and never have to leave Sherlock.

“Where to?” Sherlock snapped back into the present. The cab driver had not turned around, but waited patiently with his hands at the wheel for Sherlock to give him an address.

“221 Baker Street.”

“Right-o.”

The cab was fairly warm, but not unpleasantly. It smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke – the cabbie had probably not been abiding by the ‘no smoking in cars’ rule – which caused Sherlock to begin to crave what he’d been depriving himself of since he had returned to Baker Street after his stay with Mycroft. But he’d promised Mycroft not to touch anything harmful – be it narcotics or plain cigarettes – ever again. Sherlock had thought it was just a case of ‘big brother syndrome’, but Mycroft had then gone on to make him promise “for John’s sake, if nothing else.” Something inside of Sherlock had made him make the promise, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He’d guessed at perhaps it was his subconscious using memories of his past to make decisions. Perhaps Mycroft knew this also, and that’s why he was using John as an excuse to make Sherlock…

His train of thought was cut off by music that suddenly permeated through the cab. It wasn’t even decent music, like Vivaldi, Mozart or Tchaikovsky. It was a tinny, bass line jumping up and down the octaves to the steady beat of a drum. Sherlock vaguely recognised it from somewhere, but couldn’t quite place the name or the artist.

“Nothing like a bit of Bee Gees. This one’s my favourite.” The cabbie’s voice drifted over the music, and he moved his left hand across to turn it up as a rather high pitched voice (man, obviously, falsetto) began to sing about staying alive.

Sherlock’s stomach lurched and his head felt like it was splitting in two. The song was getting louder, he was surrounded by it, trapped, suffocating.

“Could you turn the radio off please?” Sherlock’s voice sounded so fragile and broken, as if he was 8 years old again and had scraped his knee after falling from a particularly high tree.

“Sure, no problem.” The music cut off immediately, and Sherlock heard just how fast and deep he was breathing. He held his head between his hands as he tried to stop the pain and the spinning by rubbing hasty circles on his temples. It was no good, and it would continue to be no good until he got home. There, at least he had John to rely on to help him through this. At least, Sherlock thought, he hoped so.

Just as he began to lift his head, the small screen situated to the right of the cabs interior flicked to life and the cab was filled with the white noise of static.

“Can you turn this screen off?” 

The driver ignored him, continuing to drive along their route and not turning around to even acknowledge him. Cartoon clouds appeared over a blue backdrop, and the screen faltered momentarily. When it returned, there was a face, smiling manically out at him. The screen faltered once more.

“Turn it off!” Sherlock’s voice was raised, panicked. He could feel his heart begin to race in both fear and anticipation, but for what reason he did not know. What he did know was that he wanted the screen to be turned off. Now. The face returned, with the same unhinged smile across his face as he sat in front of the blue sky and clouds background. The man was dark haired and dark eyed, slight stubble and well dressed in a suit and tie. 

“Hello. Are you ready to hear the story?”

The voice, low, with and Irish accent, instantly made the hairs on the back of Sherlock’s neck stand on end. He felt as if his heart had momentarily stopped, and his lungs were no longer functioning properly.

“This is the story of Sir Boast-A-Lot.”

Another flash of pain seared through Sherlock’s skull, but he did not move his eyes from the screen. He was frozen in his place, eyes wide in terror, taking great efforts to do something as simple and boring as breathing. The smile on the man’s face on the screen had not faltered.

“Sir Boast-A-Lot was the bravest, best and most intelligent of all the knights. He was always showing off to the other knights, especially to the court physician and the king himself He was always telling people how brilliant, amazing and fascinating he was.” The man laughed, cruel and taunting. Sherlock felt the blood drain out of his face as he realized who this story was really about. The man’s face then spread into a pout, bottom lip sticking out and eyes wide as he continued with the ‘story’. “Sir Boast-A-Lot was full of sentiment, too busy fighting silly dragons and self-sacrificing to notice how boring he’d become. There were a fair few ruffians that Sir Boast-A-Lot had encountered and dealt with over his time, and one decided that he’d had enough now.” His smile had returned, but now it was not manic, it was hungry, almost predatory. It sent a jolt of ice down Sherlock’s spine, and yet he still could not look away.

“This particular ruffian had been a debt collector, and Sir Boast-A-Lot owed him dearly. Sir Boast-A-Lot had become too boring to bother with, so he needed to change the game up. So, the debt collector staged a small ‘accident’ with the help of a few other robbers and criminals that Sir Boast-A-Lot had encountered. It was quite a nasty knock to his head.” The man on the screen laughed again. It was unnerving.

“When Sir Boast-A-Lot woke up in the care of the court physician, he could not remember where he was, or what he was doing there. He had no memory of his recent life, he didn’t know who anyone was, or even who he was himself.” Once again, his face turned sad, and yet it still felt mocking, patronizing.

“Such a shame, so much wasted talent. See, Sir Boast-A-Lot was no longer useful to the king and his knights, as he had once been. He tried to go back to what he once had been, but he was just an empty shell, a shadow, damaged and broken. He turned away from his friends and refused help. Far too proud to accept any help from anyone, even his dearest friend, the physician. He found that he couldn’t slay the dragons or chase the robbers or bring justice and peace to the kingdom. He didn’t show off or declare his brilliance anymore. He was no longer worthy of the name Sir Boast-A-Lot. He shut himself away, trying to gain back what was lost, keeping the world out whilst he struggled to bring back his stolen years. But that was wasting time.” There was nothing joking in the man’s expression now. It was deadly serious, not a smile or laugh in sight. In the background, what had once been blue sky and clouds had turned grey and stormy, almost black.

“He should have been preparing.” The man’s voice was lower now, quieter, his accent making it sound infinitely more dangerous, and Sherlock leaner closer to be able to hear what he was now saying. “Just because he’d lost all memory of the gathering storm, didn’t mean it had disappeared. No. It’d grown stronger. And the debt collector decided it was finally time for Sir Boast-A-Lot to pay back what was owed. It was time for him to burn.”

Sherlock’s stomach rolled once again, and the dizziness returned along with the roaring in his ear and the splitting pain in his head. But this did not drown out the final three words of the man on the screen.

“You. Owe. Me.”

“Stop the cab!” The vehicle stopped abruptly, causing Sherlock to lurch forward in his seat. He hastily opened the door and burst out onto the pavement. A few pedestrians gave him weary looks as his tried to remember the process of pushing much needed oxygen in and out of his body. His hand hadn’t left the door of the cab. He turned to demand the cabbie to explain to him what the hell had just happened, and was met with the same manic and crazed smile that had just been taunting him from the small, interior screen.

“You!” Sherlock found that once again, he couldn’t move. He man’s smile grew wider, and more terrifying.

“No charge,” the smooth, honeyed voice chimed as the cab began to pull away into the night.

Sherlock made no attempt to follow it. He made no attempt to move at all. He made no attempt to stop the intense pain in his head. And he made no attempt to prevent the dark oblivion from once again taking him from the world as he slipped from reality.


	22. Chapter 22

It was a pain unlike any that Sherlock had ever experienced.

The entire contents of his mind palace, including his inner Mycroft, Molly, John, Mary, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Angelo and - for some unfathomable reason - Anderson and Donovan, were joining together to break down that one door that remained locked. The black door without any handles or hinges. The door from which the thick grey fog which had clouded his mind oozed from underneath the door. They worked quickly, pounding against the wood to the rhythm of his heartbeat, which he could hear roaring in his ears.   
Each of the rooms in his mind palace were actual places, rooms he had visited and constructed in his mind. There was his bedroom from the hous he grew up in, filled with memories and data about his childhood. There was Lestrade's office, where he stored new cases until he could construct a new room for them. It was extensive, exquisite, a true masterpiece. 

They were in the master room of his mind palace, one that replicated a grand entrance to a stately home he'd visited on his first official case with NSY. It was the first room he'd taken considerable time and effort to construct. Until that point, the rooms in his palace were all identical, professional, only used to store information. After the completion of the entry, he'd spent months creating the other rooms, until his mind palace had been fully constructed. The ceiling of the entry was high, higher than any other room in his palace, and large enough to harbour any new data until he could sort it away, or construct a new room. 

The cause of the head-splitting pain was firmly rooted here, just beyond the door of the palace, at the forefront of his mind. The door that was refusing to budge even just a fraction of an inch. The door that should not be there at all due to the aesthetics of the room. Yet here they were, attempting to break it down.

"There's no point," he could hear himself saying. He did not shout, for he did not need to here, not in the confines of his own mind. 

His mind's version of Molly turned around and looked down at him. 

Down?

Sherlock had not realised that his own version of himself was sitting in the corner of the room, hands clutched to his head, tears running down his head as it continued to feel like someone had sliced it open in two with a white hot scalpel and decided to examine his brain. The pain combined with the happenings of his mind palace was overwhelming him. He thanked a higher power which he didn't believe in that he was unconscious, as it dulled the pain somewhat. If he were awake, surely he'd be screaming in pain.

"There is every point!" Molly's voice was loud, angry, and a little hurt. She shot him one last look of desperation before turning to help the others in their task. They all continued to push and shove at the door. Sherlock continued to watch them from his huddle on the floor.

His inner Mycroft strolled over to him, swinging that ridiculous umbrella that Sherlock wanted to snap in two. Not a hair on his head was out of place, despite putting in as much effort as the rest of the group in their assault on the black door.

"The East Wind is coming for you, Sherlock." Sherlock's eyes widened. The East Wind meant danger. His inner Mycroft regonised Sherlock's fear and nodded solemnly. "It's coming, and soon. The information you need to escape it lies beyond that door." He jabbed his umbrella in the direction of the door.

As he did so, a harsh laugh echoed through the walls of his mind palace, surrounding Sherlock. It was manic, taunting, utterly gleeful and frighteningly familiar. It continued to echo until there was no other noise save the laughter. It sent chills down Sherlock's spine until his whole body was shaking as he curled further in on himself, hands grabbing his hair, pulling and twisting until it was nearly ripped out of his imaginary skull.

All at once, the laughter stopped, but the hollow echoes continued through the corridors. A voice - male, heavily accented, irish - rang through the halls. The voice began to sing, slowly, hauntingly. A familiar tune to a simple nursery rhyme. It sent a bone deep wave of terror through Sherlock's imaginary body.

"It's raining...  
It's pouring...  
Sherlock is BORING..."

When the simple verse was over, the laughter started up once more. What was happening? Why was his own mind torturing him like this?

Sherlock watched the group of people. Their actions all seemed so desperate, working twice as hard as the laughter rang loud throughout the mind palace. Yet, despite their best efforts, the door still would not move. As he watched, Sherlock noticed something.

John was trying harder that anyone else. His face was screwed up in concentration as he shoved at the door with all the power that years of rugby training and military service could give a person. His efforts were constant. All his attentions and focus was on the task at hand, and despite reaping no successes, he continued to fight against it with everything he had. His eyes never moved from the black wood, and he seemed like a singular force that stood out amongst the group effort.

For some reason which was unknown to Sherlock, his sent hope and strength coursing though him. By watching John and concentrating on him and only him, Sherlock was able to tune out the never ending, torturous, mocking laughter.

He stood, surprised by the strength of his imaginary body after the onslaught of pain and mental instability. Sherlock knew that had it been his real body, it would not have been able to cope, once again proving that his mind was more important than transport.

His inner Mycroft stepped aside as he made his way towards the group fighting against the door. One by one, they each started to notice him and silently backed away, allowing him to move further towards the door until only John remained, still fully focused on breaking it down. 

"John." 

Sherlock bought a hand to his inner John's shoulder, resting it lightly there, allowing space for him to move should John decide to keep attacking the door.   
But he didn't. Instead, John froze. He turned his head until he was eye to eye with Sherlock. They held each other's gaze. They needed no words, only the silent communication. John gave Sherlock a minute nod, which Sherlock returned. Together, they turned to the black, wooden door. And together, they ran towards it, pushing all their combined strength against it.

There was an amplified cracking sound, and fog and smoke billowed around them.

Something clicked in Sherlock's mind.

And he opened his eyes, only to be greeted with a bright, white light.


	23. Chapter 23

John didn't drink anymore than the two he had when he'd first sat down with Greg, who'd had significantly more than two, but years of endurance practice ensured that the man was very capable at holding his drink. The match that the whole pub had seemed so emotionally invested in appeared to be over, and the fans had trickled out slowly as he and Greg continued to chat about everything and nothing. Only a few people remained behind now, a few regulars, a group of men whose team had obviously been victorious - if their drunken rendition of 'We Are The Champions' was anything to go by - and himself and Greg.

John was careful to stop after only two. He wanted to take the edge off, but if he was going to go back and face Sherlock after what had happened, then he'd rather his head were clear. Sherlock might have post-traumatic retrograde amnesia, but that did not stop him being Sherlock. And being Sherlock meant cutting, sarcastic remarks, insults of his intelligence, yet more deductions and just generally being a git. God, the man had lost five years but couldn't lose that bloody arrogance.

John considered this as he stared into his glass, empty now save a small amount of white froth at the bottom.

In essence, Sherlock was exactly the same person. He'd still made the same deductions about John after his return from the hospital, he still insulted people and preened like a peacock. He still dressed in a way that could make any Armani model jealous and even his experiments had gone unchanged. The only difference was that he was five years behind everyone else. If Sherlock had it within his capacity to become his friend four years ago when he'd entered the lab at Bart's with Mike, then surely-

John's thought's were interrupted by the high-pitched chiming sound of his phone. He put his glass back on the surface of the bar and pulled the ringing device out of his pocket. Lestrade looked towards him questioningly. John ignored him in favour of checking the caller ID. His blood ran cold. He hit the 'accept call' button quickly and aggressively, nearly knocking the phone out of his own hand, and bought it up to his ear.

"Mycroft, what's happened?"

John felt his heart racing, and suddenly his throat felt dry. He knew that Mycroft would never phone John in favour of Sherlock unless something had happened to the youngest Holmes. Even Lestrade's eyes grew wide at the mention of Mr Government.

"John-" He knew it was bad as soon as Mycroft used his first name rather than the more professional and preferred 'Doctor Watson'.

"Mycroft, if you don't tell me what's wrong right this second I swear to God I'll-"

"John, Sherlock's fine."

"Bullshit. You wouldn't be calling if he was fine."

"He's alive and now conscious" Mycroft amended quickly. He's currently in Charing Cross hospital and demanding your presence."

"Demanding my-"

John's voice cut off as he heard a familiar baritone in the background of the call.

_"Captain John Hamish Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, if you don't get in this room within the hour I will ensure your death is slow and painful!"_

"Ever the drama queen," John sighed. But even as he said so, he was relieved to hear Sherlock sounding like himself. "Mycroft, tell him to shut up and then tell me why he's in hospital again."

There was a murmuring on the other side of the line, and then Mycroft returned."He was seen on CCTV getting into a cab outside St Bartholomew's hosptial at 10.13pm. He was travelling for 10 minutes in the direction of Baker Street, but before reaching there, the cab stopped, Sherlock got out and confronted the driver, who then proceeded to drive away, leaving Sherlock there on the pavement. From the CCTV footage, he collapsed shortly afterwards. Two young ladies found him who, luckily, happen to be nurses who were returning home after their shifts at Charing Cross. They called an ambulance and have been with him ever since."

"He collapsed? Why?"

"Shit," came the quiet exclamation from Lestrade, who'd been listening intently to every word John said.

Mycroft's tale had done nothing to calm John down. In fact, it was possible that he was panicking even more. He was extremely relieved and grateful that he was found by nurses and not anyone else. There was a great number of people in London who would have loved to land a punch or two to the consulting detective's face - and not all of them were criminals.

"He's currently being treated for acute dehydration."

"Oh for God's-"

His medical license must surely be in question here. He was a bloody doctor. Clearly John had been so self consumed that he'd failed to make Sherlock take care of himself. He felt awful and the guilt clawed at his stomach, making it twist uncomfortably.

 _Hang on_ , John thought, _I've been mourning the loss of my wife! Sherlock can take care of himself and if he didn't, well, it's not my sole duty to make sure he does._

"I assure you John that no-one is placing the blame on you. You're an extremely competent doctor whom I've always trusted to take care of my brother seeing how he does an appalling job of it himself." John couldn't help but laugh. Both of the Holmes brothers seemed to have an uncanny ability to read his mind. It must run in the family. "Considering recent circumstances, I do not point the finger in your direction over Sherlock's condition. It's his own fault and I've seen fit to remind him of-"

 _"JOHN!_ " Sherlock interrupted.

"Tell him I'll be there as soon as I can. Also, tell him to try not to insult everyone available. I don't want to have to clean up that mess too."

"I'll be sure to pass on the message." And with that, Mycroft promptly ended the call.

"Sherlock collapsed and his at Charing Cross," John explained to Lestrade, who was still looking at John with wide-eyed panic. "He's conscious and still being obnoxious as ever, which I'm taking as a good sign." Greg sighed in obvious relief. "Anyway, his highness is demanding my immediate presence and has promised a slow and painful death if I..." John trailed off.

"John?"

_Hamish..._

"John, mate are you alright?"

_John. Hamish. Watson..._

"Seriously, John. That's starting to worry me now."

"Hamish..."

"Come again?"

"He called me John _Hamish_ Watson."

"Yeah, that's your middle name isn't it?"

John's head was spinning.

"Greg, I'm sorry but I have to go. Right now." John grabbed his wallet, threw a couple ten pound notes down on the bar and moved swiftly through the tables harbouring other patrons, leaving behind a confused Greg, until he reached the door.

It was the time of year where the evenings were still warm. John scanned the area for an available taxi, before spotting the sleek black car which rolled gracefully up to the curb. The door opened and John hurried in. Anthea was seated next to him in the back, once again tapping away on her beloved phone and not paying the slightest attention to John.

"Charing Cross Hospital," she trilled to the driver, and the car began moving into the darkness towards the hospital and, more importantly, towards Sherlock.


	24. Chapter 24

Anthea walked with purpose straight into the hospital. John followed her past the reception and into a lift which took them up to the floor where Sherlock's room was located. For once, John did not care that he was in a hospital. He just needed to get to Sherlock. He did not stop when Anthea stayed behind in the lift. He continued down the corridor in front of him until he met Mycroft, who appeared to be waiting for him. With a curt nod, Mycroft opened the door.

John didn't walk straight in, as Mycroft no doubt expected him to. He had to take a few moments outside to prepare himself. Sherlock had used his middle name, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. Did it? Maybe John was reading too much into it. But he wouldn't know unless he walked in. But he couldn't.

The crux of the matter was that John was scared. What if he was reading too much into the use of his middle name? What if he had got his hopes up that a miracle had occurred and the man in the next room was the same man who John had been living with these past weeks?

"John, if you spend all evening stood outside questioning 'what if' you'll never actually find out the answer to anything." 

John turned to look at Mycroft. It was the first time they'd met face to face since Sherlock returned to 221B after being confined to hospital the first time. Sherlock's welfare united them, but apart from that, John had nothing in common with the man who was the British Government. And yet John couldn't bring himself to not trust the man. So, with Mycroft's encouragement, John finally moved cautiously and with much pent up anxiety and nervousness into the room in front of him. Mycroft closed the door behind John, giving them a modicum of privacy.

It was similar to the room Sherlock had been in before. Sherlock was still awake and alert, sat up on his bed with a pillow supporting his back. His eyes locked on John immediately, not scanning, not analysing, just watching. As John took another step into the room, relief flooded his expression and his mouth curled into one of the largest, most genuine smiles that John had ever seen on Sherlock.

Inexplicably, John felt his own features mirroring Sherlock's as he moved towards the bed. He wasn't even put off by the IV drip that was inserted into Sherlock's arm.

"You said Hamish."

"Knew that would get your attention." Sherlock's smile turned sheepish, but he did not look away from John. It was as if he was trying to memorise his face. Reflecting back, it was here that John knew. But it didn't stop his doubts or worries.

"Why? How do-"

"I don't know how or why," Sherlock cut him off, determined to have his say. "But I do know this. Your full name is John Hamish Watson. You hate your middle name yet willingly gave it up as a possible baby name for The Woman and I. Really, John? Me and Irene Adler? We solve crimes, you blog about it and I forget my pants. Your favourite colour is a deep, mossy green because it reminds you of outdoors. Your favourite flavour of jam is raspberry and we currently have three jars of it at home. Your favourite film is that ridiculous Bond film, Casino Royale, which you forced me to watch because 'it's your bloody heritage and you will enjoy it' whilst stuffing me full of Thai food from the takeaway a few streets away. You dislike how I talk to clients, you think it's a bit not good. You think I'm rude, obnoxious, arrogant and yet I am still your best friend, as you are mine. I was the best man at your wedding where we prevented the murder of Major Sholto. You don't just solve the case, you save the life as you've saved mine so many times. And even now you continue to do so."

Before Sherlock could take a breath and continue, he was engulf in a strong pair of arms which wrapped themselves around his shoulders, although mindful of the IV line and the needles, and pulled him into a tight hug. Sherlock's arms moved around John's back and the two men just stopped. They shared this moment together.

John and Sherlock had never been the most affectionate of friends, often choosing words or a strong handshake where others would find comfort in a hug. It was an unspoken rule between them. They simply did not do it. It seemed now that the rules had flown out of the window at the return of Sherlock's memory. His beautiful, exquisite, amazing, brilliant, fantastic mind had done it. It had overcome the largest barrier that life had ever presented to him, and John was equal parts relieved, ecstatic and proud.

"Good to have you back, Sherlock." He was shaking, they both were, and neither of them cared.

"I never went anywhere. I was always here. I just needed a little help."

"Well, I hear hospitals are good for that sort of thing."

Sherlock pulled back, shaking his head. His hands rested on John's shoulders. John's clutched at Sherlock's wrists.

"No, John. You."

John felt his eyes widen.

"Me? But I didn't really do anything."

Sherlock said nothing for few moments, and then looked at John with absolute gratefulness and sincerity that John felt like he could cry.

"You never gave up. Even after everything you went through, you were still there. I'm sorry I wasn't able to do the same."

"You did a pretty good job all things considered. But you're crap at taking care of yourself."

"As Mycroft keeps telling me."

They laughed, just like they had before, back when they'd return to Baker Street after a case and share a moment of sheer absurdity together in the hallway. They laughed until John could feel tears pricking at his eyes. Having decided that he'd cried enough for a lifetime and remembering that he was a British man, and crying was simply not done in favour of a healthy dose of tea and denial, he turned away to try to rid himself of the excess moisture.

He failed spectacularly. Abandoning all hope of 'Keep Calm And Carry On', John settled for pulling Sherlock back into as he began to sob on his shoulder, too overwhelmed by the emotions coursing through his body to care too much.

"Bloody hell, I'm sorry." 

"Don't be, John. I'm sure this has been extremely hard on you, not to mention everything else." Once again, Sherlock was the one to pull back. But this time, he couldn't meet John's eyes. "John, I'm so sorry about Mary. I truly am. She was a remarkable woman."

Mary.

John had not forgotten her. No. Far from it. But with very recent developments,she had not been at the forefront of his mind. The mention of his wife bought yet more emotions to overwhelm John, especially now, as Sherlock could finally remember and appreciate her for the woman she had been.

"She was," John's voice nearly cracked with emotion, nearly, "and I'm sorry that she's not here for this. We both wanted it so much." They shared another few moments of silence together before John decided that a change of topic was in order. "Have the doctors run any tests yet?"

"No. I've refused to do anything until I've spoken to you."

This was hardly surprising. Sherlock had always been a stubborn git and it seemed that John was the only one who could get him to do anything.

"Speak to me about what?"

"Something happened after I left Bart's. I didn't know it's significance until I woke up. It was in the taxi. I-"

"What happened in the taxi?"

Sherlock sighed and squeezed his eyes shut. His eyes stayed shut as he spoke. "Get Mycroft. This is important, and it's very probable that we'll need his help. Tell him that The East Wind is coming."

"The East Wind?" John's brow furrowed in confusion at Sherlock's ambiguity.

"He'll know."


	25. Chapter 25

Moriarty.

Just the mention of his name was enough to make John's stomach twist into uneasy knots. No good ever came of hearing that man's name. Last time John had acknowledged Moriarty's existence, it had ended with Sherlock dying.

Except he hadn't died. And neither, apparently, had Moriarty.

Two geniuses, too clever enough for their own good. Two faked deaths.

The encounter in the cab had shaken Sherlock, that much was obvious. The colour from his face had gone, and John had noticed a slight trembling in Sherlock's hands as he told Mycroft and John exactly what had occurred in the cab, with no detail left out. Sherlock had been directing his tale mainly at Mycroft, which made sense as he was the only one in the room who could do anything to Moriarty whilst at the same time remaining inside the boundaries set in place by the British laws. Sherlock wasn't an idiot. He knew exactly what thought's were going through John's mind at that precise moment.

All he'd need was his gun, a chance meeting, and a bulls-eye shot to Moriarty's head.

John played over imaginary footage of himself shooting Moriarty in various different locations. Each time felt more satisfying than the last.

"John."

Sherlock's voice was not harsh. It was not a command to return from his thoughts to the present. It was not said with a force to demand he turn his attentions away from his fantasies. No. It was gentler, guiding. It provided a calm reminder to John that whilst it was very pleasant to lock himself away in his mind, it would be better if he focused on the here and now. It was this that bought John back to the hospital room.

He and Mycroft were sat on the uncomfortable chairs at either side of Sherlock's bed, although, since John had retreated into his morbid imagination, Mycroft had vacated his seat and was now pacing near the partially open window, speaking rapidly into his mobile phone as he did so. Sherlock himself had removed himself from under the sheets and was now sat cross-legged on the blue blankets that the hospital provided as a poor replacement for a duvet. Sherlock was fully towards John, and John subconsciously leaned forwards so Sherlock could speak to him directly. Sherlock also leaned forwards, although his actions seemed more deliberate. Their eyes locked and didn't break apart throughout the entirety of Sherlock's monologue.

"You've heard me say once before in a court of law that Moriarty isn't a man, he's a spider." Sherlock's voice was low and quiet, causing John to lean in further. Whether the volume and tone was for Mycroft's benefit as he continued the rapid-fire conversation he was involved in, or just so Sherlock could speak to John without anyone overhearing was unknown to John - although he assumed the latter. It was unlikely that Sherlock would do anything for Mycroft's benefit in front of John, despite all the help Mycroft had given them in the past. "It was an accurate description. He sits in the very center of a vast, extortionate, complex web. At the center, he controls every strand. Every pull ensures another death, another heist, torture, weapons trading, human trafficking. Name a crime and Moriarty's involved. He has access to the best resources available to a master criminal, drugs, weapons, people, threats, secrets, experts. I didn't understand, I couldn't comprehend until I left just how large this web is. What I managed to unpick I assume is only a small fraction of this web. From what I can gather from our encounter, he arranged my little 'accident'. I'm sure he didn't specifically intend to cause post-traumatic retrograde amnesia, but he did intend to put me out of the game for a little while. The amnesia was just an added twist to the game, creating a more challenging and more fun puzzle. He's been building something. I don't know what. But one I do know. The game is on, John."

"But, how did he do it? You saw him shoot himself in the head, right?"

"Yes. But I was too preoccupied with my own predicament to notice some things."

"And what was that?"

"The blood, John. Only a pool of blood around his head where he fell. Completely out of the ordinary for that particular wound. There should have been blood spatter and grey matter. I myself should have been covered, considering the proxemics at the time of the shot. Moriarty must have had access to something that could fake a gunshot wound to the head convincingly enough that I couldn't question it. Also, where was the body?"

"Moriarty's body?"

Sherlock shot John a withering look. "John, you of all people should know how much I detest repetition."

John flinched at the harsh words, but obviously not enough to warrant concern from Sherlock, who had now adopted his famous thinking pose, with hands steepled under his chin. Despite the situation, John felt sudden joy at watching the consulting detective as he was back in his element.

"Lestrade told me all about Anderson's, quite frankly, ridiculous theories as to how I survived the fall." He huffed out a small laugh. "Odd, I always thought that he and Donovan would be the first to pop the champagne corks at the news of my death."

"They're idiots, Sherlock, but they're not inhuman."

There were a few moments of silence as Sherlock considered John's words. Whether or not they made any impact upon Sherlock was clearly unnecessary to the conversation, as Sherlock continued to speak as if John had not commented at all.

"Despite his utter idiocy, Anderson raised a very valid point. The police never found a body, John. If they had, they would have called into question whether or not my death was part of a murder-suicide. But no such questions were ever raised. It's possible that he could have had assistants ready to remove his body after I jumped, but there would have been far more blood and brain matter. So, once we have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains-"

"Must be the truth. Which means that Moriarty's still alive!"

John watched, fascinated at the different emotions passing over Sherlock's face as he finished speaking. Wariness that Moriarty's web was larger than he'd first anticipated, anger at the fact that he had not realised this, excitement at the prospect of the game being back on as Moriarty's still out there, somewhere, pride and elation at John having reached the same conclusion as him, and fear. Fear of what?

"What's wrong?"

Sherlock broke eye contact, choosing instead to look at the space separating them. John leaned back to get a better, fuller view of his friend. Sherlock's neck, shoulder and torso were contorted with tension. He was closed in on himself. John could see the defence barriers go up. Any minute now Sherlock would return to his preferred aloof and closed down state. He would declare himself 'fine', assure John there was nothing to worry about, and assume John would accept this and move on, just as he had done at Baker Street before disappearing off to Bart's and hitching a ride in a taxi driven by Jim bloody Moriarty.

In synchronization with his thoughts, John watched as Sherlock seemed to pull himself together, straightening his posture and schooling his face into the familiar, cool mask of indifference.

"It's nothing of importance John."

"I call bullshit. Now, tell me what's wrong."

Sherlock swallowed, and he began to fiddle with the blanket he was sat on. John waited. He had all day, and - according to reliable sources including, Mrs Hudson, Mary and Lestrade - the patience of a saint. John folded his arms and just watched, waiting.

"He'd used you as a target before John, twice before. Both occurrences nearly ended in one or both of our deaths. I can't help but feel that Moriarty will once again reach out and use you as a target, John. Only this time, if he does, I don't think we'll be able to get away so easily."

Sherlock continued to fiddle with the blanket, like a small child would with a much loved blanket which they've carried around with them for years. John could imagine Sherlock, an unruly five-year-old, with such a blanket. 'Safety Blankets', his mum used to call them.

John leaned forwards again, reaching out his hand to lay it on Sherlock's wrist, forcing the detective to pay attention to him. It had the desired effect and Sherlock turned his face up to meet his gaze. Two sets of contrasting blue eyes met, and John gave Sherlock's arm a reassuring squeeze.

"Hey, we've got this, okay?"

He didn't wait for any reply or acknowledgement, choosing only to remove his hand, lean back and once again fold his arms across his chest. Behind Sherlock, John could see Mycroft end his call and make his way back to the seat. John cleared his throat.

"So, what's the plan of attack, then?"


	26. Chapter 26

" _Bored!_ "

John rolled his eyes. Same old, same old. Nothing ever changes. Sherlock was lying across the bed he was currently inhabiting, stretched out to his full length so his feet were gracelessly dangling off of the edge. His arm was thrown across his eyes as though to shield him from the stupidness that radiated from the entire inhabitants of this earth. John sat watching him, still sat in the same chair, arms folded. He looked very much like the picture definition of a tragic heroine. Drama queen.

"Yeah, Sherlock I heard you the first time. Also the second time. And the third and fourth."

Sherlock scoffed. For a fully grown man with the highest IQ that John had ever come across - with the possible exception of Mycroft - Sherlock had an uncanny ability to at like a petulant four year old who had just had his favourite toy taken away, or Harry when John had tried to take a bottle away from her when she was at her worst. But John wasn't getting into that now. He had one lanky, dark headed, distressed and bored consulting detective to focus his attentions on. And Sherlock was certainly making sure that he had John's undivided attention.

He threw his arms down on the bed beside him in added dramatic flair. John was now certain that he was in the presence of the biggest Drama Queen in the world. But this Drama Queen also happened to be his best friend. His best friend who recently recovered from a traumatic head injury and subsequent memory loss. John felt like Sherlock had earned the right to be a little (or a lot) dramatic.

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself and do not need to be kept confined to this hospital bed in this hospital room which is the very epitome of boring."

"Sherlock-"

" _John_."

"You've only been here for a day."

Sherlock threw his arms up. Yep, definitely the worlds biggest Drama Queen. John pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to breathe deeply. He'd lost his temper far too many times in a hospital for his liking.

"A whole day, John. A whole day  _wasted_  allowing people who dress up white coats carry clipboards and have the  _audacity_  to call themselves medical professionals to prod and poke at me and carry out all kinds of unnecessary and ridiculous tests."

Sherlock moved to get up from the bed, probably to begin pacing again like he had been doing this morning when John woke up with an uncomfortable ache in his neck as a result of the awkward angle he'd been sleeping in. Damn the uncomfortable hospital chairs.

It had taken John over an hour to convince Sherlock to sit down. The man was a bundle of energy, which hadn't been especially helpful to the doctors examining him.

"Sherlock-"

"John, the longer I stay here, the longer Moriarty has the advantage, the longer we're in danger."

John threw out his arms to physically push him down onto the bed. Sherlock actually looked slightly shocked at his actions. It was only subtle as Sherlock had learned to school his face into a constant neutral expression. But John had learned over the years how to read Sherlock. Earlier John had used persuasion, reasoning and logic - all the things that could actually convince Sherlock. But that had been exhausting, and John only had so much patience, despite what people assumed. So John had reverted back into Captain Watson in an attempt to get Sherlock to actually pay attention and do as he was asked by actual medical professionals, including John himself.

"Sherlock, sit back down and eat your damn food."

Sherlock sighed.

"Eating's boring."

"But highly necessary for staying alive."

Sherlock had visibly flinched. Not just a subtle change which only John could interpret, even Anderson and Donovan would have seen Sherlock flinch. His face scrunched up, eyes blinking rapidly, as though someone had just slammed a door and created an incredibly loud noise. His body tensed up completely.

"Sherlock?"

"Sorry, I just- It's nothing." Sherlock physically turned from him, looking out towards the window. John new it was no good trying to pursue the issues. There's only so many times Sherlock would allow John dominance in their conversation. He decided to let the conversation drop.

"Sure... whatever you say, Sherlock.

They sat in silence. It wasn't an awkward silence. It was an all too familiar silence that often happened after a brief spat back at Baker Street. It only ever happened after a small argument, if they had a large or serious argument it would often end in John taking a walk so he could get his temper under control. Watson's had famous tempers, John had experienced them first-hand when his father blew up when he was younger. John never wanted to be like that, so he'd remove himself from the situation before his temper got the better of him.

And then it hit him.

"Ah, shit." Staying alive. Of course. Moriarty. "Damn it I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't think before I spoke."

"It's alright, John. It doesn't matter."

"No, it shouldn't matter," John corrected him, "but it does. You're still recovering from a traumatic experience-"

Sherlock scoffed again.

"Blow to the back of the head and amnesia actually count as traumatic experience, especially in my book, and especially when it comes to you. I'm  _sorry_ , okay?"

"Yes, John. It's fine."

The silence resumed.

John heard the door behind him open and quick official sounding footsteps followed. Mycroft.

Neither John or Mycroft had actually let the hospital since Sherlock was admitted after his encounter with Moriarty. John was incredibly grateful to the eldest Holmes brother. Mycroft had sorted out all of the paperwork and had spoken to all of the doctors and consultants regarding Sherlock, whilst John stayed with Sherlock to make sure he did not do anything stupid. It was the most logical arrangement. Sherlock was most likely to listen to John and Mycroft was the most likely to have an influence over how long Sherlock was required to be kept in for observation. Having the British government as your older brother certainly was useful sometimes, and although Sherlock would never admit it out loud, John knew that he was grateful that Mycroft was here.

"There's no obvious damage to be found," Mycroft began, standing behind John, but obviously addressing the both of them. Sherlock turned to look up at his brother. John continued to focus on Sherlock's reactions. Considering what happened earlier, it was important to keep an eye on how Sherlock reacted. "They were going to continue to keep you here, but I managed to  _convince_  them to discharge you." The way Mycroft said 'convinced', slipping it out of his mouth with particular emphasis, which didn't entirely convince John that there was much persuasion - or choice - in the matter.

"So, you're both free to go."

Both John and Sherlock sighed in relief. Sherlock couldn't stand another day of being so ridiculously bored, and John couldn't stand another day of Sherlock complaining about how ridiculously bored he was The tension in Sherlock's shoulders that had been present since John's minor slip-up disappeared. John too, felt himself relax at the news that they could go home. At home, he and Sherlock could get to work on the new development regarding Moriarty. At home, it would be nearly normal, with Sherlock's memory returned. At home, Mrs Hudson could fuss over them and make them tea and insist that she wasn't their housekeeper.

 _Yes,_  John thought. _Home sounds good right now._


	27. Chapter 27

"What about that woman there? In the green coat."

"The one with the obvious over-eating problem?"

"Sherlock."

"John, if you're under the impression that suffering from temporary amnesia as a result of a head injury has awakened my appreciation for life and that I will now strive to be a better - and consequently more polite - human being, then I'm afraid to say that you are mistaken. Clearly nothing has been done to improve your intelligence during my - as you keep delightfully referring to as - 'little memory blip'."

"Yeah, alright. No need to show off you lanky git."

"Insults, John? Really? Not even very good ones."

"Shut it, you."

"But what about our game?"

"Fine, tell me about the green coat lady."

They'd begun the game at John's suggestion. He still needed reassurance that Sherlock's brain was fully functioning. It was a basic deduction game - John would point at a pedestrian as they passed them in the cab on their way back to Baker Street, and Sherlock would relay every deduction he could to John in the time he had. On and on it went. So far it had been full of insults from Sherlock, and much eye rolling on John's behalf.

Sherlock's deductions got more and more ridiculous, and John's quiet chuckles soon turned into loud, hysterical laughter which he made no effort to stifle.

"You're making that up. There is no way that's true." John wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, stopping his laughter enough to catch his breath.

"Making things up? Me?" Sherlock put on an over-exaggerated expression of shock, even bringing a hand up to his chest and contorted his face into an affronted expression. "Why on earth would I do that?"

Sherlock's expression was so comically melodramatic that John honest-to-God thought he would die of laughter in the back of the cab. The cabbie was giving them annoyed glances in the mirror - honestly, some people just didn't behave like normal, mature adults.

John gasped in great gulps of air as he tried to calm himself after the cabbie's most recent death glare.

He'd missed this. He'd missed laughing and joking with Sherlock. He'd missed the easy banter that just seemed to flow easily through them.

It was times like this where John allowed himself to forget.

To forget the threat of (the apparently very much alive) Moriarty. To forget the horrible experience that his best friend had had to endure. To forget that he was now a widow.

John was not a selfish person, he never had been. But just for today, he allowed himself the indulgence of forgetting, and focused simply focused on Sherlock - talking with Sherlock, laughing with Sherlock, just being here with Sherlock.

Later, John would reflect that Sherlock was the only thing John had left in his life that he truly valued. But sat in the back of the cab, it was not a time for reflection. It was a time for being in the moment.

John's hand moved to Sherlock's shoulder, just resting there easily. Their eyes met, and they burst into laughter once again. There was nothing more important to each other than their friendship. Despite everything - Sherlock's fall, their adventures, John's wedding, Sherlock's amnesia - the one constant had been their friendship.

It's true that John may have landed a one or two (or four or five) punches on Sherlock over the years, but they had always been forgiven. It wasn't as if Sherlock was the most tolerable person in the world, so he instantly forgave John for every wrong. IT had been harder for John to forgive Sherlock, but there's a difference between a punch and pretending you're dead for two years.

They pulled up to Baker Street, still laughing - for there is no better way to return to your home than laughing with your best friend as anyone, including the Holmes brothers, will tell you. They paid the cabbie, who was glad to see the back of them, and proceeded to the door. At Sherlock's request they knocked instead of letting themselves in, and waited for Mrs Hudson to answer.

She answered almost immediately. Clearly, she had been waiting for them to return.

"Welcome home, boys."

Home. I felt good to hear.

John was loathe to admit it, but 221B had always been home and probably always would be. Even when he had moved in with Mary, he had always felt a strange loyalty to the flat - although, he'd never admitted it to her.

Mrs Hudson moved aside and ushered her boys in.

"John, Sherlock, love, would like a cup of tea?"

There was a moments pause, where John and Sherlock exchanged glances. "Tea would be lovely, Mrs Hudson. Our flat?"

She smiled at both of them before gently patting Sherlock's cheek. John walked up the stairs first, and Sherlock held out his arm to Mrs Husdon, who blushed ever so lightly before looping her own arm through Sherlock's and allowing him to escort her up the stairs.

John looked back fondly at them. He pulled out his phone and quickly took a picture to immortalize the tender moment between landlady and detective.

Despite her offer, John still insisted that he made the tea. He collected three mugs from the cupboard above the kitchen worktop, ignoring the petri dishes that had also managed to find their way up there.

Mrs Hudson found herself chatting away to Sherlock on the sofa. The situation was not unfamiliar to her. She and Sherlock had spent many evenings on one o their sofas with tea in their hands, simply talking. More often than not they had discussed Sherlock's latest case, or her mot recent visit to her sister.

The atmosphere in 221B was relaxed, welcoming and warm, reminiscent of the time spent there before Sherlock had left.

John placed two of the three mugs - now full to the brim with tea - on the coffee table in front of the coffee table. he turned and settled himself into his worn, fabric armchair with his own full mug.

It was completely different from when John had sat here waiting for Sherlock to return from hospital after the accident. Then, John had felt a leaden weight in his stomach, convinced that nothing he did would help Sherlock in the slightest.

Mycroft's words returned to him as he sat there, watching Sherlock and Mrs Hudson as they continued their conversation.

_He will remember, I am sure, soon enough. He needs you here. Believe in me when I say that you are the only one who could do anything for Sherlock now._

It would kill Sherlock for John to admit this, but Mycroft had been right. Sherlock was here perfectly healthy, memory restored.

John had lost a great many things waiting for Sherlock, the most important and most painful loss had been Mary. But that made John more determined to hang on to what he had left, and what he ha left was Sherlock.

John made no effort to join the conversation, but continued to watch the exchange. Eventually, having drained her own mug, Mrs Hudson made her excuses and left John and Sherlock alone in the flat.

Sherlock began to clear away the remnants of their tea drinking. John followed him with his eyes. Contrary to popular belief when Sherlock was not in his mind palace or playing his violin or suffering from memory loss, he was a very considerate flatmate. John believed that he was constantly trying to prove to John that it was worth staying. Sherlock had always seemed afraid that John would move out if he wasn't considerate enough to him. This fear was illogical. Yes, John had moved out, but that was to live with the woman he loved, who had put him back together after he ha fallen apart when Sherlock jumped. He had not moved out because Sherlock was no good to live with.

John had been so close to losing all of that again.

"John?"

John had unconsciously moved up, out of his chair n into the kitchen, ending up stood in front of Sherlock, who was just turning back to the living room having just completed the washing of the mugs.

John didn't think, he just moved until he had hold of Sherlock in his arms, pulling him into another tight hug. Sherlock returned it - hesitantly at first, as if afraid that John would break down at any second, but grew stronger as he realised he wasn't going to. It was strange for them to be so physically close in such a short space of time. This second time, however, they were not impeded by a hospital bed or IV lines.

"Thank you."

John did not need to say any more. Sherlock knew what John meant in those two words.

_Thank you for being here, with me. Thank you for getting through this. Thank you for staying strong when I couldn't. Thank you for being alive._

Sherlock pulled away. Obviously, Sherlock wanted to continue to comfort John, but there were more important matters that required his attentions.

Moriarty.

Sherlock sat himself down at the table with John seated in the chair opposite. He did not talk. He needed to think. It seemed that the game was continuing - with neither Sherlock or Moriarty actually dying after the face-off on the roof of St Bart's - and Sherlock could tell that it had become significantly more dangerous, but not for him. But for the man sat across from him.

Moriarty liked to play dirty, and bringing John back into the game again was the worst kind of foul play that Moriarty was capable of, because he knew exactly how much John meant to him.

It would take every once of his intelligence, Sherlock was sure. But he was ready.

It was time to make his next move, before Moriarty upturned the board.


	28. Chapter 28

The day after their return to Baker Street, John had gone to visit Mary's grave. He had taken pink roses, Mary's favourites, to lay beside it. IT was his first visit since her funeral. He felt guilty for the extended delay, but he had been wrapped up in taking care of Sherlock. Now that Sherlock had recovered, and John trusted him enough to leave him alone in the flat without running off to shoot up again, there really was no excuse. John hated that he had left it this long, but he was here now, and that was what mattered. He lay the flowers down carefully, as if he was afraid that they would shatter into a million pieces - just as his life had done when he'd lost Mary. He stood there, string at the white marble, caught up his own thoughts, ignorant to the world around him.

He didn't register how much time was passing, he only knew that it was. He was wrapped up in his favourite jacket, hands stuffed into his pockets just for a place to put them.

And he stood there, waiting, staring.

***

John was probably going to kill him. Actually, John would definitely kill him if he knew Sherlock was thinking about it. But Sherlock needed to keep John safe, and he was sure that Moriarty would use John to get to him. It had worked once before, and if he did it again, Sherlock would give Moriarty anything he wanted to keep him safe.

The only way to ensure this was to face Moriarty alone.

And there was one problem with this. Since Sherlock's recovery, John had not let him out of his sight. Running off to meet Moriarty behind his back would be a massive betrayal of John's trust, and Sherlock didn't know if he could do that again. It had taken time for John to forgive him before, and it would take even longer this time, and there was a good possibility that John simply wouldn't forgive him, ever.

Keep John safe, or keep John's trust.

Sherlock had never faced such a difficult decision. Choosing to jump off of the roof of Bart's was easier than this. But the consequences of that decision...

John had been completely broken. He had grieved. Admittedly, Sherlock hadn't thought John would mourn his loss. He didn't comprehend how much he meant to John. And John meant the world to him too. Listening to John's words as he lay on the pavement, unable to move for fear of exposing himself, then separating from him for two years - it was hard. It had taken it's toll on the both of them.

The depth of betrayal ran deep, and if Sherlock went alone to face Moriarty, he'd be pushing John to the limit.

During the time of their separation, John had Mary to fall back on. She was there to pick up the broken pieces of John's life and had carefully pieced them bak together with her love, her kindness and her goodness. But this time, if Sherlock left John behind again, there would be no-one to catch John, no-one to ut him back together.

Sherlock decided. And it might pain him to do this, and it may very well end his friendship with John for good, but it was necessary.

Since their return to Baker Street, Sherlock had reacquainted himself with his beloved home. Losing his memory had left him out of sync and he had spent the previous evenings just sat in his leather armchair, breathing in the atmosphere withing the wall of 221B. He had been happy, content to just sit there forever listening to the sounds of life both inside and outside of the flat. He listened to Mrs Hudson shuffling carefully up the stairs to check up on her two boys, to the sounds of the cabs driving past their windows, the laughter and conversations of the customers of Speedy's. But his favourite sound was that of John. Just John, existing, breathing, living. He was a reassuring presence in the flat, and Sherlock relied on it to keep him calm whilst he solved the Moriarty enigma.

It was in this exact position that Sherlock came to the decision, and it would be from this position that he acted upon it.

"John?"

There was silence.

"John?" He called again. Still no response.

Sherlock looked out of the window. It was still light, so Sherlock knew John wasn't sleeping. He knew that John wasn't working at the clinic as he usually left a note for Sherlock telling him if he had been called in for a shift, and Sherlock couldn't find one anywhere in the flat. He was not out for drinks with Lestrade, as that is where he had been on the evening when Sherlock had most recently been admitted to hospital, and John did not like to spend tow nights out drinking in such close proximity. Sherlock also knew that John was not with Mrs Hudson in her flat, because both he and Mrs Hudson preferred to spend time together in their flat, rather than cramming all three of them into her significantly smaller living room.

This left only one place that John could be.

Sherlock donned his signature coat and scarf and started to leave. A thought occurred to him just as began to descend the stairs, and heawiftly turned bak to grab his wallet. he needed to make a quick purchase.

***

John didn't notice the presence of another person next to him until they bent down to place three white lilies at the foot of the gravestone next to John's roses. The white of the new flowers made the shade of pink infinitely brighter.

Sherlock straightened next to John, and joined him in just staring at the gravestone. The fact that Sherlock had come down here, laid flowers at Mary's grave, and then chosen to stay with John sent a jolt of emotion though John's chest.

"Truly, I am sorry, John." Sherlock's voice was barely louder than a whisper, but it didn't need to be any louder. He wasn't addressing a large audience, this was a moment shared just between the two of them. John felt the heat prickle at his eyes, and before he knew it, he was wiping the hot tears from his face.

"Thank you, Sherlock. This means a lot to me."

"I know."

They continued to stand there in silence, reading and rereading the word that were forever engraved onto the white marble of the gravestone.

Mary Watson. Beloved wife, dear friend, never forgotten, always missed.

She would have like that, simple, elegant, and gets to the point. It had been hard to sum such an amazing, beautiful person in so few words, but John felt like he had chosen the right ones.

Mary would have been so pleased to hear that Sherlock had regained his memory. She had wanted it so much when she was still with them. It was infinitely unfair that it had only happened after she died. Clearly the universe felt like John did not deserve both Sherlock and Mary. First, it had taken Sherlock's memory, making him unrecognisable as the man that was John's best friend. Then the universe had taken his wife, permanently. After taking Mary, it had returned Sherlock to him. It was a cruel game and john wanted to scream. There was no way of winning this twisted game that was his life.

The tears began falling again.

"Jesus, I'm sorry. It's just- I just-"

John couldn't get the words out. He simply could not explain to Sherlock what was happening, or how it was effecting him. Sherlock was the genius, surely he should be able to figure out what was happening without John to spell it out for him.

Luckily, it seemed like Sherlock did exactly that.

"I know."

***

Sherlock did not very often change his mind, but after seeing John like this, he simply couldn't leave him. Not again. So Sherlock hanged his mind. If they were going to face Moriarty, they were going to face him together, as a team. That's what they were. It's what they always had been, and would always remain, not matter who they came up against.


	29. Chapter 29

It ended where it began.

Just before opening the door, Sherlock turned back to John. He quirked an eyebrow.

 _Are you ready_?

John nodded in return, his eyes steely and focused, jaw set, a look of absolute determination etched onto his features. He raised his hand to the gun that had been safely hidden away under his jacket. Sherlock had made see that absolutely no-one could tell it was there. They'd even managed to slip it past Mycroft. They had gone over the plan again and again until Sherlock felt completely sure that John knew what to do, where and when to do it. This was going to be difficult and if it went wrong, could end up in one or both of their deaths. Sherlock shivered at the sudden wave of cold that passed through him at that thought. He needed to focus. Thinking about John, bleeding out, slowing dying in his arms...

 _Focus_.

He nodded silently at John, before opening the door and walking out into the familiar setting.

 

\---

 

**Three Days Earlier**

"So now we've been left with two options."

They were sat at the dining room table, opposing each other. It was easier to talk when they were face to face. Sherlock had waited for a few days after the visit to Mary's grave to approach the subject of Moriarty. Despite popular belief, Sherlock was not tactless. John needed the time before jumping back into the game. Sherlock had talked over breakfast, explaining everything he knew or could guess about Moriarty's goals as John read his newspaper and finished his toast.

"And they are?"

John had not looked up from his newspaper, but Sherlock knew that he was still listening intensely.

"One, I face Moriarty alone. It's most likely that he will be expecting me to do this if the last time we faced off was anything to go by-"

There was a crumpling sound as John clenched his fists around the delicate paper. His eyes snapped up to Sherlock as he instantly put the paper on the table, turning his full attention to Sherlock.

"No. Absolutely not. Out of the question."

"John-"

John smacked his fist down on the dark wood. He was not just angry, he was seething, his fury seeping from the very prose of his body. Sherlock flinched instinctively. Last time he had seen John in this state had been when Mary was diagnosed, and Sherlock had earned himself a punch to the face.

"No, Sherlock. I'm not going to let you do that." John's voice was shaking in poorly hidden rage, and Sherlock flinched again at the harsh tone. He needed to get over weaknesses like this. He was in 221B, he was with John, he was _safe_ , nothing was going to hurt him, but that didn't stop his mind flashing back to his time spent away, to the endless violence he'd endured at the hand of a faceless crony or soldier. He had not been like this immediately after he'd returned. Sherlock blamed the accident. He was sure he'd received some sort if damage that left him emotionally compromised like this.

He was _home_. He was _safe_.

 

"It would be infinitely safer for you if-"

 

"No, it really wouldn't." John pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply. Sherlock watched John's external sign of an internal struggle, and waited patiently for him to continue. "Sherlock, it nearly killed me to lose you last time. I was so convinced it was my fault, that there was something I could have done but hadn't. I'm not letting you go alone. If I can help in any way at all, even if it's jumping in front of bullet-"

A wave of pain flooded Sherlock's mind, ice froze his veins and the air was knocked out of his lungs.

"John, no!" That was not a viable option. It never had been, and never will be, ever since the moment they met. Sherlock took the falls, not John - infinitely kind, selfless, brave John Watson.

"-then I'm bloody well going to do it. I am not losing you again, Sherlock Holmes. Because if I do I'll... I'll..."

Sherlock's heart broke at the pain in his friend's voice. He could not allow that to happen.

"John, I-"

"Option two?" John continued, ignoring Sherlock's continued attempts at interrupting him, and choosing to ignore his own emotional outburst like a true Englishman, choosing to turn from feelings in favour of a cup of tea as he got up to switch the kettle on.

Sherlock was frozen in his chair, unable to comprehend. The sacrifice John had just offered. It hurt. Picturing a scenario where that was necessary hurt. And it was in this moment that Sherlock glimpsed a tiny fraction of what John had experienced when he had faked his fall.

"John-"

"For someone who hates repetition, you've said my name an awful lot during this conversation. Now, what is option two?"

John had not turned from the kettle, which he was clinging to as if it help all of the answers to life's questions, which was ridiculous. It was a kettle. It boiled water and nothing more. Sherlock took a deep breath.

"You come with me."

John let out a huff of laughter, and finally turned back to Sherlock. A small, yet genuine smile was teasing the edges of John's mouth, and his eyes seemed to regain some of the life that had been missing from them since Mary's death.

"Well, let's get started. Let's finish this game once and for all."

He went through the process of masking tea, a routine he was alarmingly familiar with. He watched as the tea leaves dyes the boiling water, the swirling patterns in the cup closely resembling the patterns of the steam that was rising from the hot liquid. He made two cups, a subconscious decision, but probably a good one. He splashed milk in both and added sugar to Sherlock's. Sherlock had a secret sweet-tooth but he would never admit it, not even on his death bed. The teasing from Mycroft would be relentless. With a mug in each hand, and using the warmth that permeated throughout his body from the objects in his palms, he returned from the kitchen counter to the table. It was only when he leaned over to place Sherlock's mug in front of him that he noticed the state the detective was in.

"Sherlock?"

The man's eyes were staring at nothing, and John could have sworn he saw the beginnings of tears in the blue-grey eyes of his best friend. When Sherlock didn't respond, John moved swiftly, yet gracelessly, around the table until he reached Sherlock's side. He place a cautious hand on Sherlock's upper arm, where John could feel the faint trembling that's indistinguishable to the eye, but impossible to miss by touch.

"Sherlock, you're scaring me."

This, combined with the tightening of fingers around his arms seemed to snap Sherlock back from the confines of his mind palace, or wherever it was that his mind had wondered off to. His eyes were wide and scared. His hand covered John's where it sat on his arm, and his white, bony fingers wrapped themselves around John's shorter, more tanned ones.

This was not even close to Sherlock's normal behaviour, and even further from okay.

"You can't get hurt, John. I forbid it. And you can't leave."

John looked puzzled.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. What brought this on?"

"When you said you'd jump in front of a bullet. John, I can't- You can't- I wouldn't let you. I need you here, alive, breathing, I just-"

Sherlock closed his eyes to cope with the onslaught of fear, panic and desperate, relentless sadness at the idea of John placing himself between a bullet and Sherlock. There were no tears, just quick, shallow breaths as he tried to maintain on the right side of hysteria.

"I'm sorry, John."

Sherlock let John assume that he was apologising for the meltdown. He never told him that he was actually apologising for the hurt and agony that he knew John must have experienced when Sherlock jumped. But Sherlock left John to his assumptions. After all, there was a dangerous game to win.

 

\---

 

**Present**

As the cold, frigid air hit Sherlock's face, and the wind blew his coat around in a swirling motion, a familiar song played out over the rooftop. Sherlock was familiar with the phenomenon of déjà vu, but had never experienced it with such an intensity. We're it not for the presence of John beside him, Sherlock would have assumed that - impossible though it may be - he had returned to nearly four years previous.

"Tut tut, Sherlock. I thought it'd just be you and me again." Moriarty stopped the song as he spoke, just before Sherlock began to rip his hair out. Since their encounter in the cab, 'Staying Alive' made his skin crawl and his head swim. Moriarty let out a long, dramatic sigh before standing up to face the consulting detective and the army doctor, the two contrasting extremely as they stood next to each other, shoulder to shoulder. Well, nearly - height difference was a bitch sometimes, especially when trying to present as a united front, but there was nothing that could be done. "Ah well. Shall we begin, boys? A game with three players was always more interesting than a game with two."


	30. Chapter 30

John would have been perfectly happy to never see another hospital again. He was developing a very strong dislike of them, but who could blame him after the amount of time he'd visited them over the past year. At least this time no-one was unconscious or hooked up to any machines.

This time was only for a basic once over after their encounter on the roof. John was quite content to sit there and let the nurses fuss. The reason being that, even if he closed his eyes, Sherlock made his presence known to everyone in the room and most importantly to John, reassuring him that he was okay, despite the fact he was sat not three meters away on the examination table in the next room threatening to have Mycroft have their medical licences revoked due to their incompetence. God, the man was such a Drama queen. If anything, the showdown on the rooftop just proved this.

The man could never do simple. 

\---

"You know the drill, Sherlock." Moriarty's voice was a bored sounding drawl, the Irish lilt leaking through. It sent a shiver down John's spine, and he could see out of the corner of his eyes that it caused Sherlock to tense up. Probably fight or flight. Moriarty was chewing gum rather noisily, as if to point out just how tedious he found the situation. He took a step closer to the two of them, the scent of spearmint washing over them in an unpleasant way. "I give you a choice, you choose to off yourself. Except this time I'm not letting you get away so easily."

Sherlock easily returned the stare that Moriarty was giving to him, ice meeting fire, genius and madman locked together in an internal battle that John was not a part of.

"I could say the same think about you," Sherlock's rich baritone ran out through the cold air. If he was feeling at all tense or anxious his voice certainly did not give it away. Sherlock sounded the epitome of calm and collected. "Very clever stunt you pulled all those years ago."

Moriarty's face did not falter.

"You flatter. And someone did once say that great minds think alike."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the accusation. He took a small step towards John, slightly shielding him from Moriarty's gaze. Moriarty raised an eyebrow at the movement.

"Except we're not all that alike are we Sherlock? Look at you. Still not an angel, not quite, but still on their side." He moved right up into Sherlock's space, angling his head upwards, so he was literally in Sherlock's face. "Always had to be the hero didn't you?"

Sherlock refused to react.

"You misunderstand me if you think saying that I'm on the side of the angels is an insult to me."

John couldn't help but feel a surge of pride at Sherlock's reply. A few years ago, he probably would have given a completely different reply. Moriarty took a step back at Sherlock's words, surprised leaked onto his face momentarily, a crack in the carefully maintained mask that not even John missed. But the crack was soon fixed, and his look of indifference and boredom returned.

"That's because you got sentimental. Look at you, bringing your pet along with you. Easier to protect when he's in plain sight?"

He began to laugh manically. John and Sherlock exchanged confused looks, and in that one moment, that singular point I'm time where they both took their eyes off of the scene before them, was the moment when a tanned, heavily muscled arm wrapped itself around John's neck and he felt the cold, smooth metal of the barrel of a gun press against his temple. The arm forced John forward, bringing him level with Moriarty and turned him to face Sherlock. John could not see the man with the death like grip around his neck, but could deduce (Sherlock was really rubbing off on him) that he was significantly taller than John, well built, a smoker from the stench of cigarettes that emanated from him, right handed although that did not impede the grip of his left arm and judging by the way he stood and the hold he currently had John in he had some sort of military background.

Sherlock was the most panicked John had ever seen him look. His eyes were wide, his mouth open, hands at his side twitching as if they longed to reach out and reclaim his friend. They had planned for Moriarty to have company, but still, they had hoped he didn't as it made their plan slightly more tricky.

"Sorry to spoil your plans boys, but I thought I bring along a teammate of my own." John thee his head back in an attempt to break his captor's nose, but the tight grip around his neck only became tighter, momentarily cutting off his air flow before releasing it slightly. The gun was pushed harder into his temples, the pressure an ever present reminder that John was only seconds away from death if Moriarty so chose to do. "Try not to struggle Doctor Watson, Moran tends to get a little trigger happy with the ones who struggle and I do detest cleaning up."

Sherlock's gaze hadn't left John the entire time. He viably flinched when the gun the gun pressed closer. He did not try to hide it. Moriarty already knew that John was Sherlock's pressure point, as Sherlock was John's. 

"John."

Sherlock's voice was choked with emotion, panic, worry, unspoken words, regret, a promise to keep him safe. So much was said in that one word. John kept his gaze locked win Sherlock's to reassure him, to encourage him to continue with the plan and not to be sidetracked by this. The plan would only work if Sherlock gave his full concentration to the plan. They could not afford distractions now. 

Moriarty began to circle Sherlock - who continued to ignore him in favour of staring at John in shock and panic - as a shark would when it came into close contact with its prey.

"No getting away from it this time, Sherlock. No magic carpet to swoop in and save you. No big brother to protect you," he taunted. It was obvious what Moriarty was planning, and had been obvious since he turned up in the cab. History was repeating itself, and this time Moriarty intended to win. No cheating, no magic tricks. One dead body and one survivor standing victoriously over it.

"Sherlock, don't, please."

John could see the spark in the detective's eye, he could see the consideration of Moriarty's request. John refused to let Sherlock back down. They had a plan, and John intended to stick to it. Some part of John's brain knew that he and Sherlock had to pull off a convincing performance, and maybe Sherlock's reaction was part of the act, but a larger portion of his brain was taken back to the last time he had been in proximity to this rooftop, several years ago, watching from below, helpless. He couldn't watch it, not again. Not ever again.

Moriarty snapped his fiery gaze to John and moved towards him. In one swift movement Moriarty raised his hand a delivered a viscous backhand to John's face. Sherlock audibly gasped and took a step forward, but a raised hand from Moriarty was enough to stop him.

"Uh uh, Johnny-boy. This is between me and your precious detective." He sauntered back to Sherlock, once again invading his space as he leaned up to whisper in his ear. "Here we go again Sherlock, surely you don't need it explained."

Sherlock said nothing, eyes still on John as Moran's grip around his neck tightened further.

"Fine, as you're being so uncooperative. You jump, or he dies."

John began to struggle again, determined to break free. It was a fruitless attempt and John heard the safety from the gun click. His heart rate began to accelerate his muscles tensed in anticipation of the bullet.

"Fine, I'll do it."

John's world shattered. He watched as Sherlock once again stepped up to the edge of the roof. The grip on his neck loosened slightly as Moran's attention turned to the man silhouetted across London's skyline, his beloved coat waving in the slight breeze. Josh couldn't watch. He turned his gaze to his feet, refusing to look.

Moriarty coughed and held out his hand, his palm flat and demanding.

"Phone, please."

John's eyes snapped up. Moriarty took the phone and saw exactly what John and Sherlock had planned. For the entire gathering on the rooftop, Sherlock had placed his phone in his coat pocket, and he had been on speakerphone to Mycroft for the whole exchange. Mycroft would no doubt have recorded the whole conversation which would be enough to convict bot Moriarty and Moran, and several high-ranking officials from the government would be on their way to arrest them at that very moment.

If they both made it out alive that is.

Moriarty looked confused as he regarded what he saw.

"What the..?"

"Now, John!"

This was the signal that John had been waiting for. He launched his entire body backwards, catching Moran by surprise and causing them both to fall backwards. Moran released John I'm favour of using his arms to break his fall and in doing so released his grip on the gun, which was sent skidding along to where Sherlock and Moriarty were currently locked in a fight. Joh. Fell back onto Moran, who acted as a safety mat for John. John scrabbled off of his back and turned to face Moran, pulling out his Sig from where Sherlock had hidden it. Without hesitating, he shot Moran in the head, killing him immediately. 

The shot momentarily stunned Moriarty, but Sherlock had been anticipating it quickly used this advantage to snatch the remaining gun and turn it on Moriarty. John also turned his gun on Moriarty.

"Go on then," he taunted, "shoot me. It's what I'd do Sherlock. Become me. Become the psychopath. Or the hero, whatever angle you choose to look at this."

Sherlock tightened his grip on the weapon.

"I'm not a psychopath, nor am I a hero. I'm a high functioning sociopath."

And with that Sherlock Holmes shot James Moriarty, his greatest adversary, most alluring puzzle and biggest threat.

John lowered his gun, quickly emptying it of bullets and placing it on the ground before making his way over to Sherlock. The man was shaking, eyes hollow and staring at nothing. John wasn't surprised, Sherlock had just shot a man, it was only logical for him to go into shock.

"It was the only way, John." He mumbled quietly, voice barely carrying on the wind." If we incarcerated him he would have only escaped, he would have always been a threat to us. This is the only way to ensure we're safe."

John took Sherlock's chin in his hand and forced his best friend to look at him.

"You did what needed to be done, Sherlock. It might not have been the 'right thing', but it needed to be done. We're safe now." 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but Mycroft chose that moment to barge onto the rooftop with a team of men and Anthea behind him. He cooly regarded the scene before him, before signalling Sherlock and John forward. Mycroft's team began the clean-up process as Mycroft and Anthea escorted them down to the emergency room to be checked over for any injuries.

Johnhad escaped with only bruising around his neck. He had managed to avoid a concussion when Moran broke his fall. Sherlock was being treated for shock and seemed to be recovering well, as the volume and tone of his voice indicated.

John chuckled at the continuos threats and closed his eyes, perfectly content to revel in the fact that they were alive, they were safe and no threat was currently being held over their heads. John suspected that would all change soon, though. One of the many perks of living with the worlds only consulting detective.

Still, he could never claim that their lives were boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I finally managed to update!
> 
> Hope that this chapter was okay! I know it's not as exciting as many other fics, but this was the way I always intended it to go. I think this fix has one more chapter to go to tie up any loose ends. Let me know what you think!
> 
> All my love,   
> Scarlett xxx


	31. Chapter 31

It had been over half a year since the incident on the roof, since Moriarty had died and finally left John and Sherlock to live in peace.

 _Well_ , John reflects, _when have our lives ever been peaceful?_

In fact, their lives had been far from peaceful, but John preferred it this way. He’d much rather live a life full of unexpected twists and turns than sit there and do nothing. The unknown and spontaneity of life is pretty much what every human being on the planet signed up for every time they made an effort to get up in the mornings. Life is literally walking into the unknown, the unpredictable on a daily basis.

It was that or waste away, succumb to boredom and stagnation.

John supposed he had every right to do so after everything he’d been through. His best friend had (albeit temporarily) forgotten his existence, he’d watched his wife struggle through a brutal fight with cancer only to lose her at the end, and their lives had once again been poisoned with the presence of the infamous consulting criminal, whom John was quite happy to see die at the hand of the same best friend who’d suffered amnesia but after an encounter with Moriarty and a short stay in hospital, regained his memories.

If there was anyone in the world who was entitled to a week off to catch their breath and reflect on recent events, surely there was no better candidate than John Watson.

But he was a soldier. He refused to sit still.

Of course, there were times when the past would catch up with him, when he would be overwhelmed with emotions that everything on Baker Street seemed to stand still, the world stopped spinning on it’s axis as John tried not to fall apart with the flood of feeling.

Grief for his wife. His perfect, beautiful wife who’s time had come far too soon. Anger at Moriarty, for instigating Sherlock’s near downfall as he struggled against his own mind. And relief. Glorious, blessed relief that it was all over – that there was no more pain for Mary, that the world was rid of Moriarty, and that John still had Sherlock.

Of course, John stayed in Baker Street. It was illogical for him to be in any other place – as Sherlock pointed out to him on more than one occasion. There were arguments, nights where tempers had risen so high that both men saw red and something nearly always got broken. But a unrequested cup of tea, or a newspaper cut-out of a particularly interesting looking case in each other’s direction the following morning usually put things right. 

Sherlock still took cases, still ran into the line of danger every now and again, but now he seemed more reserved, and he never did anything overly dangerous unless John was in close proximity. They were a team after all, and apparently the recent events had had at least some affect on the Consulting Detective.

John continued to visit Mary’s grave. It was still hard for him to accept that she was gone. He spoke aloud to the gravestone sometimes – it helped him cope, and if he looked mad for doing so, well, John didn’t care.

Occasionally, John would be wrenched from sleep by dreams of a very different ending to the rooftop scene from months ago. But Sherlock would always be there, be it to provide a source of comfort, or to sooth John back to sleep by playing the gentlest and most beautiful melodies on his violin.

The past would always haunt John, he knew and accepted that. But that’s exactly what it was – the past, a mere shadow on John’s existence. For now, John needed to look to the future, and that future was here, in Baker Street, with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had gone through just as much as John had, if not more, and yet Sherlock had supported John the entire time.

No, a more accurate description would be that they supported each other, as they always had since the Sherlock had asked ‘Afghanistan or Iraq’. And, as they say, some things never change.

Because with Sherlock Holmes, there would always be John Watson – best friends, colleagues, the Detective and his Blogger, whatever you will. And that’s the way John intended it to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, that's it! The end! Wow... I'm actually feeling quite emotional...
> 
> This has been my most read fic, my most liked fic, and I've had such an overwhelming response to it.
> 
> Thank you guys for supporting this story so much! Really, if it hadn't been for you guys I probably would have given up this fic long ago, so thank you for that!   
> Special shoutout to my friend Jennie! You rock Jennie!
> 
> I hope the ending has lived up to the rest of the story, and that you guys felt like it's a suitable ending for John and Sherlock's journey!
> 
> Thank you for following this guys, I truly love you all from the bottom of my heart!
> 
> Scarlett xx


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